Phantom Lullaby
by Urchin of the Riding Stars
Summary: England, 1844. A lonely orphan lends a hand one fateful evening to a lonelier monster. DannyxVlad father/son.
1. Ghost in the Graveyard

Phantom Lullaby

England, 1844. An orphaned Danny Fenton labors in a sweatshop in order to forestall inevitable tragedy, and helps a lonely visitor one fateful hour who takes uncanny interest in him. Ghost VladxDanny fatherson.

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><p><em><strong>May or may not continue this. This was more of a spur-of-a-the-moment sort of thing...very much based on Oliver Twist.<strong>_ _**Nonetheless, I very much hope you enjoy it.** _

~(*0*)~

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><p>For being the shining capitol of a grand and glorious new empire, London was a murky, monochrome sort of place. As it rained so often, the sky was seldom ever blue, and heavy clouds continuously trudged across it, like weary worksmen returning after but fitful sleep to another day's exhausting labor. They were usually gray, like the winter snow that quickly became grime in the filthy cobblestone streets lined with excrement and trash, and frequently burst open with rain. Better-off merchants and people of some good fortune usually kept umbrellas with them at all times, ready to bustle into a promising-looking inn or a horse-drawn buggy at any given moment.<p>

Rain or (almost unheard of) shine, the workers continued in their duties; the fortunate apprentices nodded meekly to their masters and meekly tolerated their ears being boxed, the tiny, pinched faces of children drifted around the marketplace as they attempted to weasel away some scrap of food and were dragged away by the constabulary, the prostitutes on less reputable streets flaunted their trade, the men shoveled coal into great, fiery furnaces and ferried people on their carts this way and that, and the grim-faced, portly undertakers and their servant boys hurried down the streets full of purpose to the black carriages, where a black coffin was being sealed inside.

Black! So many things in Victoria's golden city were painted black; while London boasted a thousand artisans, everyone seemed content to keep painting the world black. In more inspired fits, the civilians might receive rainwater and paint the world gray; but gray was uglier than black by far. It consumed the city in its entirety; brick could seldom keep the soft, rusty blush of its natural tint before it too wore away to a fitful gray, and the gleaming stones in the street became weary after being stepped on for so many years, and too succumbed to a sightless color that seemed to eat away at everything. While rusty pothooks and chains were predominant in this old city, gray too ate away at the dark brown that might otherwise have been pleasant to look at; a layer of scum and slime that even the most thick-skinned of charity-boys felt queasy in their useless endeavors to wipe it away!

Even the ladies of class chose to don themselves in black skirts, (black lace being the new fashion) and the boys who labored in the factories and on the rooftops, where belching chimneys snowed black ash onto their chapped skin, and made the youth quite fashionable, evidently. While some used puddles to wipe away at the mess that regularly covered them pitch-black, many of which simply didn't bother to wash, even while tearing at their daily loaf of bread with quivering, soot-ridden hands. Their mothers had never told them to wash. Many of them had never had mothers to begin with.

Many of those boys were lucky enough to spend their days laboring inside of the chimneys (only a small child could fit inside), but many were not so fortunate; orphan and destitute girls normally spent much of their time stitching or cleaning or learning other such skills in the orphan-houses, (many of which would flee their mistress and make a living with their bodies) most of the young boys who spent much of their short lives there spent their days in back-breaking labor, humble offerings to feed the awakening engines of the Industrial Revolution. Their hands shoveled coal into the glowing red, steel angel's mouths, which were always gaping and hungry for more. There was always straw to be stacked, bricks to be manufactured, fertilizer to be compounded, boxes to be packed, machines to repair, cords to hemp, stones to break, and a great number of things to be stringed and tied.

Only the most destitute of the paupers would wander into these little bastilles, which brimmed with hunger and misery. Originally intended for the very poor to solve the labor crisis, the young wards of the city worked alongside strangers and vagabonds, often into the wee hours of the morning. Hunger and extreme poverty united them, but that was it; the guards would often find them fighting over the animal bones that were to be crushed into fertilizer, longing to suck out the marrow.

The little children in one particular workhouse fared no better than the majority, although there was a subtle difference in workhouse seven than in its fellows; its leader was the nastiest, coldest, most heartless man alive, unwilling to offer so much as a sick-day for a child whose leg had been crushed by heavy machinery. His name was Walker, and his reputation was so ghastly that word of him had spread to other children, who were only too thankful when their supervisors only gave them a palm-lashing for lagging behind in their work. Tales of his cruelty were so amazing that they left many people credulous; he was the very equivalent of a boogeyman, a man with ice in his veins instead of blood, who worshipped his book of rules to the very last word, and who had a temper as hot as the flames of hell.

The only nice thing anyone had to say of the man was that he ran a very efficient workroom.

His mistress, a red-haired vixen named Spectra, was no better; she was a woman who was obsessed with her looks, and took care that the children would not become overly plump by taking away the church-funds meant for the youth for her own personal use. While Walker would stare down at the workroom with his pitiless green eyes, looking for a rule-breaker or a straggler, Spectra would be draped around his shoulders like some exotic pet, rouge-covered lips in a condescending sneer. The children feared and loathed her; she seemed to flourish at other people's misery, and enjoyed offering the youngsters of soft remarks as to the identity of their mothers, most of which she alluded as prostitutes. Their own worthlessness was so easily apparent when she came flaunting over with her elegant dress and rosy skin that spoke of good food and hours of make-up; many could not stand to look at her. While in their bunks, children used to dream of the hideous mischief they'd do the woman if they had three minutes in her personal chambers.

One such child who occasionally dreamed of such things was a little boy by the name of Danny Fenton, whose story I shall now relate to you.

~(*0*)~

He'd been such a woefully small scrap of a thing at birth; the nurse had fully expected him to die after a few short hours, and had retrieved her shovel, in case she had to bury the infant. But he'd been wrapped up in the ragged shawl of his own dying mother, and rocked by the little fire in the poor hut until at last the woman breathed her last, and had went to the massive, unmarked grave of the penniless.

She'd been wearing a wedding ring (one Spectra had pocketed later), and she'd said that her husband had died months ago after a cholera epidemic. She'd been tossed out of her home, (as a woman, could not inherit property) seven months pregnant, and with a little red-headed girl named Jasmine. She'd gotten sick after spooning out most of her food for her hungry child, and had gone into labor while carrying several heavy crates. Jasmine and Danny had become wards of the country, and left behind in the workhouse in the nourishing and enriching care of Spectra and Phillip K. Walker.

Danny had been working ever since he learned how to walk; he could not remember a time he had not. He remembered his sister, although his memories of her were fuzzy-he remembered that Spectra had cut off her beautiful red hair to sell to the wig-maker, that she had taken care of him, that he had unconditionally adored her, and that she had died of some obscure illness. She'd taken to coughing too much in the smoky workrooms, and Danny had watched people carry out her small body, spindly and frail, hidden underneath a blanket-from a small opening in the workhouse wall that constituted as their only window. He hoped that he would be able to join her soon in paradise soon, else she and Mama would not recognize him.

He had no idea what his mother looked like, but Jasmine had described her as supremely lovely-he wondered if he looked anything akin to her, or to his father. He was a small boy for his age, with a messy crop of raven-black hair and a heart-shaped face. His frame was thin, and his hands pale and bony. His eyes were a surprising burst of blue in the gray shadow that so rarely saw sunlight-like lapis lazuli stones.

Jasmine had passed on perhaps two years ago, and now, Danny Fenton was seven years old. Little had changed in his life, barring his sister's death-he worked alongside the other children all day long until his palms were aching every day of the week, except Sunday. That day, all the children had to walk in two straight lines and had their ears pulled if they fell out of line to church, where a minister with a gray mustache and wild, frightening eyes spoke to them in his booming voice and told them stories that made them afraid to go to bed; stories of hellfire, eternal torment, and endless suffering. Danny had to wonder if Father Matthew had ever seen the inside of workhouse seven.

Judging by his many rings and golden rope about his neck, he had not.

In the barracks where the children slept, most nights went by without much talking. Some children wept often, but were told to shut up by the older, world-weary children who had little patience. Many simply learned the art of crying silently with a hand over their mouths while tears poured down their faces.

However, some evenings, when the workload hadn't been quite so bad, the children would have some energy to talk. There really wasn't much to talk about; some children were ferried outside the workhouse to perform some nascent errand, and would be pestered for descriptions of higher London society. Most of those who still had energy to talk spoke dreamily of the ideas they had for Spectra's wardrobe and makeup bag, (_I'd put mud on all of her silks, cut up her fans, and put skunk-spray in her perfume vials_!) although on a blue moon, a child might speak of their encounter with The Ghost.

Danny both dreaded and wildly anticipated these stories; in the event that a worker had to do some task in the dreaded graveyard for Mr. Collins, they'd often come back wailing about the specter they claimed was haunting the headstones, rattling chains, reaching for them from beneath the ground. His stomach would be fluttering wildly as the older boys would solemnly tell their juniors of the time-old story that had gone on for several generations of worker-boys-the first tale of the terrible ghost with the deathly blue skin, the one with the ragged cape and the terrible red eyes.

~(*0*)~

_'They're making this up.'_

So thought Danny one night as he massaged his aching stomach (an older boy had insisted that he hand over half the contents of his supper of gruel), lying on his side on his pallet. He drew his thin blanket over his eyes as several of the hushed boys surrounded one great big one named Dash on the bed next to Danny's. He could hear the boy clear his throat self-importantly before saying, in a dramatic whisper:

"Can I trust ye with this secret?"

Danny could almost hear his companions nodding meekly, and he rolled his eyes, though his heartbeat quickened. His mouth went dry, and he turned his back to them, trying to assume an uncaring position in the dark room lit only by a few candles that were to die out soon. Danny shivered at the thought, praying that he would be asleep before the darkness came over the chamber. It still left him terrified-immobilized-in his bed, though he was so tired so very often and felt like he could sleep for days if left alone….

If they spoke of The Ghost, he would not sleep today. He threw his small hands over his ears, though they still pricked to listen intently as the boy went on:

"You know of the old cemetery-not ours, the nice one-on the outskirts of London? Where all the rich'uns go to be buried?"

Danny caught his breath, and felt goosebumps prickle unpleasantly all over his skin. Dash continued, still in a hushed voice, as though speaking about the devil:

"Well, _I _once got to visit," he said proudly, and as Danny turned, he could see the child preening as his peers gasped in envy and admiration. "Mr. Collins needed a workboy, see, and Mr. Walker sent me along to help events at the funeral of some baron, or some other rich'un with his pockets lined when he died."

Big deal. Danny tried to pretend he wasn't jealous. _Open sky. Fresh air. _

"Anyhow, so I'm standing behind Mr. Collins, carryin' his cane and top hat while everybody's mournin' the loss of old moneybags, and I'm looking 'round yonder graveyard, which is a sight nicer than our own place, I might add. All covered with stone angels and flowers and such. The service is passing into the night, and the wind is howling like a frigid hell around us. Not anyone was dressed in anything but black. The baron-or-something-of-the-sort's widow was wearing a long black veil. Aye, she looked like a ghost underneath it when the wind moaned and shook it away from her bloodless face. If I didn't know better, I'd say SHE **was** a ghost!"

He paused for effect. Now everyone in the bunkers was listening intently, Danny included.

"But she was only a shriveled up old hag, mouth twisted up like she swallowed a pint of horseradish, or something of the sort. Nothing unnatural. The night is passing 'round us, and while the preacher's talking, the sky is getting as black as tar. Suddenly, without warning, the air is absolutely still. Dead. The leaves that were tumbling in the air fall back on the squashy green ground as if someone reached up and tugged 'em."

The violet-eyed child gloated over the effect he had on his listeners for a moment, and then went on, quite seriously,

"I was really hoping that the service would be over right-quick, because I wanted to sup with Mr. Collins, who must surely be more generous than Mr. Walker…..though it is a nice thing, to be dressed up right and proper. But that's not the point. As I watched them lower the casket into the ground, the enormous iron gates began to _creeeaakk_ and moan as they swung back and forth. And as God is my witness, I'm telling you, there _were no wind_."

"The people in the crowd began to get anxious when the birds' singing died away into complete silence-I know this because some balding pile of lard kept checking his pocket-watch every few seconds. The priest kept reading out of the good book, but I tell you he began stumbling over every other word, though he must've read those words at least a million times before. His hands started shaking as mist started to rise from beneath the ground, covering our feet entirely. I didn't think mist could start up right that fast, and apparently the dead baron's daughter thought so too, because she ran away from her father's funeral, looking petrified!"

"You lie," exclaimed one of the young boys, looking bewildered. "Surely a rich lady would not-"

"-ask Mr. Collins if you think I lie," snapped Dash, lazily rubbing a hand into his messy blonde hair. "He called it such impropriety later on, although I WILL say that when the service finally ended and it was as cold as winter in that graveyard, HE was one of the first people hurrying out of there, white as a lark."

The children laughed, appreciating this great joke. Smiling knowingly, the older boy went on:

"The ground became like a marsh beneath my feet, though I swear as God is my witness, it had not rained that day. Everyone was sinking after the closing hymn into the mud; you should have heard some of those great men complain about their boots! It was most unnatural-I felt like I was wading through Earth instead of walking upon it. It took us all a very long time to get out, and we were all keen to get going, because one of the baron's sisters claimed that it was the _witching hour_ in the graveyard, and we had all better get going and be smart about it, else someone was going to _be truly angry_."

Danny felt ice replace his spine; the witching hour was when the all haunts of the world were free to come out and take the Earth for themselves. While little children slept, demons and goblins and ghosts and all sorts of mischief-making folk ran around. The woman who served them supper claimed that she had once encountered a ghost in the Witching Hour from the local box factory, and while Danny was fairly positive it _couldn't _be true….the idea of being in a graveyard in the dead of night was terrifying. Spectra sometimes used the Witching Hour to remind the children to stay in bed at night, else someone was going to crawl through one of the factory chimneys and take them away. Danny was afraid to stick out so much as his feet at night, imagining some haunt would grab him by the feet and fly him away.

…which, admittedly, was not such a bad idea. Surely a haunt could not be any crueler than Miss Spectra or Mr. Walker.

He faintly heard the boy's voice outside of his reverie, and paid closer attention:

"-the priest said that the witching hour was right nonsense, but he was looking uneasy when the wind picked up again. Blew the bible out of his hands straight to the ground. He couldn't keep a hold of the thing. There was just something unnatural in that place, unclean-like. The air seemed to be full of groans, and they weren't coming from the funeral-party. I can tell you that."

"When Mr. Collins and I reached the front entrance, our shoes were covered in muck, they were. Mr. Collins wanted me to polish his before we stepped into the carriage, but then he realized that I had accidentally dropped both his hat and stick inside the cemetery, and he shouted that I was to retrieve them immediately. I asked him to accompany me-he threatened to give me a good hiding-so I hurried inside."

"Weren't you scared?" asked Danny, in spite of himself. Dash snorted.

"'Course not, though I had every right to be, you know. Beasts were fleeing the cemetery like hellfire; birds, cats, possums, squirrels. I even saw little beetles crawling out of the marshy ground so that they could scuttle away through the bars. I was unnerved, but I was more afraid at the idea of Mr. Collins finding a good stick, so I hurried back to the burial plot where we'd buried the old baron. I grabbed the stick and hat, but it had gotten very misty in a short period of time, and I had a job trying to find the wall so that I could feel my way out again. I was blindly stumbling around, shouting for Mr. Collins, but he either ignored me or could not hear me. I could not hear him reply if he did."

"I was getting very, very nervous inside that place. And do you want to know why? Ill work was there that night."

Everyone gasped. Danny's throat went dry. '_He's just trying to scare us_,' he thought desperately, although there was a knot in his stomach. Dash went on:

"I remembered what everyone had said about the ghost, and now I was sure the stories were true. An angry haunt had his body buried there in that graveyard-a madman who had liked to experiment with the evil things of the world-and I found the grave that the other work'uns described." He nodded his head politely to some other children, who had their chests puffed out and looked grave and serious. "I asked Mr. Collins about the ghost's fantastic mausoleum grave later on; Mr. Collins claimed that the man had been very rich-like a lord, or something-but that he'd lost his title for doing something truly awful. I asked if he had been put to death or something, but no one would tell me. Mr. Collins said that the matter was not fit for young and impressionable lads like myself."

"Why, what did he do?" squeaked a young child, wringing his thin blanket with both hands. The boy gave him an impish smile.

"A great number of things, or so I heard from another undertaker when I pestered him later that night. The undertaker said that not one man would come to this wealthy soul's funeral, even though he had a marvelous tomb decorated with gargoyles and angels. The man spent his time dabbling in black magic, trying to make the woman he loved return to him. She wouldn't have him."

"Ewwwwww" was the general response. Danny felt his heart twinge in pity. Dash continued, somewhat apologetically:

"But there were other things. He wasn't an English man at all, but some stranger from Transylvania who had made some pact with the devil to earn power and wealth."

"Impossible!" cried a brown-skinned boy to Danny's right. "How could you possibly know such a thing?"

"It was only the speculation of the people," said the storyteller mysteriously. "I hear that some maid of his had run out _screaming_ from his castle once because she had stepped into the monster's laboratory, and had seen what the man was doing. They only ever managed to get that much out of here; she was blathering mad when she came out. They were going to shut her away in an institution, but they found her hanging from the rafters in her home when they came for her, or so the undertaker said. He said that _other people_ had said that it was a cover up; the poor maiden _died of fright_!"

"Stop," moaned Danny, pressing his hands over his ears. "Please…"

Smiling malevolently, the boy said, "Well, it's what I heard. The undertaker said that he had moved from the dark country of vampires to our hamlet in order to avoid being burnt at the stake for being something truly unnatural. The townspeople had wanted him to recite the Lord's Prayer, but he refused."

"Why is that important?" a child asked. Dash gave him a sneer.

"Are you daft? Anyone possessed by a demon can't say things like that; their tongues twist up! Anybody knows that!"

This sounded absolutely ridiculous to Danny. Still, he could help but ask:

"Did his family come with him?"

A snort. "The man HAD no family; he'd been a common merchant once before, but somehow, he managed to acquire a great amount of wealth in a few years. A tremendous amount. His servants were allowed to say why, else it'd be quite within his right to cut their tongues out."

"What!"

"Stranger things have happened," said the older boy sagely. "It was in their contract, you realize. A punishment for loose tongues. But never mind that. The man never stepped out of his castle into the daylight, and never had any friends to call on him. He never hosted any parties to flaunt his status, never had any children running on his property. I heard he invited the local children to play on his territory once, but that surely must have been a fib. **I** believe that he kept an iron fence around his house that went at least ten feet high and had spears at the end, like in the Selfish Giant's garden. If he did invite children to play on his lands, it was probably only so he could eat them!"

"Stop!" cried Danny again, now on the verge of tears. "Stop….I'll….I'll….."

His voice died off; what could he do? If he ran for either Walker or Spectra, they would surely only beat him, and make him sleep in the ash-shed. Then, when he came out the next day, the children would beat him for squealing on them. He could not possibly win.

Dash laughed as Danny's lip began to quiver.

"What, feel sorry for the ghost, do you? He almost got me, you know."

"Why, what did you do?" asked Danny miserably, wiping at his eyes.

The older boy scowled.

"I did nothing but spit at the demon's grave and cross myself three times. But back to the ghost when he was still a man; he came to England, won favor amongst the noblemen, and somehow got appointed to knighthood after rescuing the King from an assassin."

Danny wearily rubbed his red eyes.

"But does that not make him a hero?"

Dash continued as if Danny had not spoken.

"He wasn't _liked_ at court-the undertaker said that he was cold to women and shunned normal society. He was rude and abrupt in his manners, scarcely charming, always absentminded and shady. After a few years, Victoria called for his demise, because she suspected that _he'd _been the culprit behind the attempted assassination! The King and Queen ordered their men to arrest him, and the Undertaker said that they found him dead in his basement, surrounded by books, vials of chemicals, and strange symbols chalked into the ground. They wouldn't bury him in the royal vaults-they sent his body out to our cemetery, despite his written wishes that he buried back home. Do you want to know _why_ I think he wanted to be buried at his castle?"

"Why?" squeaked a child. The boy laughed.

"Because he was a vampire, and wanted to go to sleep in his coffin! The police were afraid that there was some otherworldly wickedness to the man, and they insisted that a local priest drive a stake into his heart! He must have collapsed into ashes-"

"You're lying!" cried Danny, hands over his ears. "There are no such things! There **_are no such_** things!"

The mean-faced child cast a threatening look at his fellow, fists balling up menacingly.

"I'll teach you to call me a liar," he promised angrily, advancing slowly towards the younger. "I'll send you to your grave, where you can see the TRUTH of what I've seen! I saw his ghost in that graveyard, Fenton, and he had a wooden stake driven through his heart!"

"What," gasped another boy. "You SAW his ghost?"

Pleased that he still had his audience, Dash turned around again, although he still sent little Danny Fenton an ugly look out of the corner of his eye.

"Yes. After I'd stumbled on the fancy grave all the other boys talked about in their stories of the ghost. I spat on it, called the corpse a pathetic coward, swore an oath, and kicked mud on the marble tomb."

The orphans gasped in awe and dismay. Danny closed his eyes. He knew what was coming next.

Dash's face lit up in excitement as he remembered, "And then IT rose out of the ground with a terrible moan, and I believed I was done for, for it was the ugliest thing I have ever seen. Pardoning Fenton's face, I mean," he added snidely, and the room was suddenly full of nervous giggles. "I thought it was the devil himself; I should not have been surprised if he were. His eyes were bloody hollows, bleeding red tears all over his skin, which looked like the skin of the corpse we had buried earlier-no warm blood rushing at all! His hair was dark, glossy, and pointed, so that it looked like he had horns coming out of his head! And he had long, sharp teeth!"

Danny tried to hide underneath his blanket again, but Dash ripped it from him, leering hugely. "Long, sharp teeth," he repeated with relish. "I thought they were the canines of a hound or of a vampire! His cape blew behind him in the gale, and it was ragged, great, and red! His face was transfixed in rage, even while it was in agony! And do you want to know **_why_**?"

"Not listening," whispered Danny, face bloodless. "Not listening. Not listening…."

Dash dragged the child's hands away from his head, and punched the boy in the stomach. While Danny was clutching his midriff, doubled over in pain, the boy started cackling.

"Oh, I WAS almost a little afraid, then-"

Danny knew by this Dash had probably wet his pants.

"-but the creature kept pawing at its chest, where a large stake was buried, covered in glowing green water! It chased me only for a short distance-I assume it was because I was smart enough to make the sign of the cross three times-and then, it returned to its grave, making a dreadful rasping sound as though it were drowning in blood as I ran outside. Mr. Collins had not seen a bit of it and would not believe me, but I realize you boys-" He gestured impatiently behind him "-do!"

The boys who had been called to be page-boys for the day nodded solemnly. One of them, with greasy black hair matted to his head quickly spoke up:

"Yes, you're right, but you forgot his roar when he came OUT of the grave! He sounded like a wolf! It was frightful!"

"And you're forgetting the oaths he said once you defiled his grave! I threw a rock at one of the angel of the death's wings on it, and he came out and said some terrible things!"

"And you're forgetting the fact that he could FLY! He must have demonic, bat-like wings!"

"Devilish powers!"

"Yes!"

"He must have been trying to bewitch us so that he might EAT us!"

"Of course!"

"But why wouldn't he chase any of you outside the cemetery?" asked Danny, through barely moving lips. The boy with the matted hair gave him a contemptuous look.

"You are stupid, Fenton. We are faster than ghosts. He would have passed several crucifixes on the headstones and died because of it. THAT'S why his tomb has none of them! He's trapped!"

No one had presented this theory before, but it certainly sounded logical. Dash nodded, wishing that he thought of the idea himself.

"So, one day, when Mr. Collins calls for another boy to assist him at a funeral, one of us must sneak a vial of holy water from the church. That way, one of us might kill him and leave the rest of us in peace."

"But I thought he was stuck in a corner of the cemetery," asked Danny, puzzled. "Why don't we simply leave him alone? If no one gets too close, I don't think…"

Dash huffed and rolled his eyes; many others followed suit with jeers and murmurings.

"Idiot. It's a devil. If we destroy a devil, Mr. Collins might give us a reward. He might take one of us on permanently." There was unmistakable longing in Dash's eyes. "At the very least, it would mean that we could plunder the man's grave; he was buried with a jeweled sword, I'm told."

Distraught, Danny stared at him.

"How would you ever carry that thing out unnoticed? And why would you desecrate a man's tomb? And what use would you have for a sword?"

"Because I want to EAT! He was already a villain, why shouldn't I take his things? And I'd find a way, you blithering idiot. I'd sell it, get rich, and purchase my own workhouse."

"And you'd hire us? Give us more to eat?"

Dash pretended again as though Danny had not spoken. He opened his mouth again, but then, everyone froze as footsteps started echoing through the halls. Someone was coming to check on them.

Everyone raced for their beds, burying themselves under what warmth they had and what they'd stolen from others. Danny's blanket was dragged away from him in the darkness by an unknown hand, and all the candles went fluttering out in an instant. Danny lay down, heart pounding with dread as someone peeked in, clearly looking for anyone talking or out of bed.

Shivering, Danny curled himself up into a ball on his bed and closed his eyes. It was dark either way, and he was scared. Scared of the witching hour, scared of Walker, scared of Spectra, scared of Dash, scared of the story. He wasn't frightened of the specter himself, oddly enough-his heart broke with pity for the man, wicked or otherwise.

A terrible thing, to die alone and unloved, dishonored and disgraced!

Dying might be a relief from the misery that chilled the child from the inside out night by night, sparse meal after sparse meal, but he yearned to live. To endure, or to at least have the blessing of passing under the eye of someone who loved him. He'd gotten sick three years ago, and he had thought he would be the one to die and rejoin Mama first, but he'd recovered, only to lose Jasmine just a few weeks later.

A tear raced down his face in the dark. He could barely remember what it was like to be touched gently, or affectionately by another human being. He knew the sting of a lash very well, and he knew an aching stomach terribly so, but he could not recall the slightest token of affection from his masters or fellow orphans. He'd always been the odd child out, the one who was shunned to the end of the line when it came to lunch, the scapegoat for having broken files or messed up something on the assembly line.

He was alone. Everyone was alone. And he felt ready to die because of it.

He could feel it in his aching bones, which felt more brittle and heavier to him each dawn they woke, and were escorted out into the kitchens for small amounts of food with a sickening stench. Most of his own serving Danny was invariably obliged to part with.

Then, work for five hours. Sometimes, Danny got so exhausted keeping pace that he'd nearly tumbled to his knees, unwilling to care about the whip that would lash him until he finally stood up again. Perhaps if he waited long enough, Walker might beat the child to death and he could be hopefully restored to someone who loved him.

But where was "God" when Danny could not recall the last time he felt truly happy? What crime was his, other than to have been born an orphan and poor? Why was his family taken away from him? Why had he no one to talk to or smile with, as the other worker boys had? Even penniless, a worker boy could usually count on friends.

What had he done?

What had he done?

Another tear joined the first, and then another, and another, until Danny's hands were plastered over his mouth so he did not make a sound.

He wanted to die…he wanted to live. He would not live for much longer here; the boy knew that much. If he tried to run away, the police would only beat him and bring him back for Mr. Walker and Ms. Spectra to punish...

…and what would he do on the streets? He did not want to steal; Jasmine had said that was a terrible thing to do, and you could get hung for stealing a loaf of bread. If he could not find paying work, he would surely die.

But perhaps it did not matter; maybe, were he to die soon regardless, he could walk and walk and walk until his legs broke beneath him and he could die in the English countryside. He had heard it described by several patrons who had come into the workhouse looking for orphans; it sounded like paradise. The richer visitors had described cottages that sounded like they had come out of the fairy-tales Jazz had told him; the Earth would not be soot beneath his feet, but moist, healthy, clean soil. The air would be fresh and clean, enough to make one giddy off of it, and there would be flowers. Flowers! Flowers and rustling green stalks of grass on cool nights with stars dominating the night sky. Everywhere and anywhere, dazzling and glorious, as many wishes as you could ever have, mysterious and jewels for the world entire!

Danny sniffed silently and drew his head back, fist still over his mouth.

Such a sight would be more beautiful than his wildest dreams; of that, he was certain. If he could run away and could not find a position, then he would avoid the policemen and walk until he was surrounded by long grass and little sheep. Then, he could content himself with having done the impossible, and starve or freeze peacefully.

Smiling slightly, Danny started rocking back and forth in his bed, deciding right then and there that he would start collecting small scraps of food tomorrow. But no; he could never keep them hidden; he'd starve without them, and the boys would invariably gobble them up, anyhow.

The only solution was to run as soon as possible, before he lost his nerve. Tomorrow. He would wait until midnight, and then creep out of the barracks, to the factory, to outside. He didn't need to know where to go-if he kept walking, he reasoned, he would eventually wind up in the wilderness.

There he would be free. No would chase him out so far.

With that glorious thought in mind, Danny fell asleep, still rocking himself all the while in his cold bed.

~(*0*)~


	2. An Offering of Ashes

Phantom Lullaby

England, 1844. An orphaned Danny Fenton labors in a sweatshop in order to forestall inevitable tragedy, and helps a lonely visitor one fateful hour who takes uncanny interest in him. Ghost VladxDanny fatherson.

* * *

><p><strong>Some stuff happens. Please review!<strong>

~(*0*)~

* * *

><p>CLANG, CLANG, CLANG!<p>

Danny instinctively curled into a little warm ball at the familiar sound. He had just fallen into the warm threshold of sleep, although he saw laughing devils as blue as death chasing him around the graveyard in his mind-

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG!

Danny's blue eyes flew open, and exhausted as the child was, he scrambled out of bed, snatched the blanket someone had stolen from him, and began to make his bed. Around him, people were dashing to do the same. If all the beds did not pass inspection by Ms. Spectra, or if just one bed was made untidily, everyone in your designated barracks could lose their breakfast. Made fierce and angry by the demons of hunger crawling in their empty stomachs, boys typically beat the unlucky child to near unconsciousness, and swiped their supper and dinner. Danny had only needed one experience to keep him painfully immaculate with his blanket folding. All the little blankets the children had were to be folded into identical little squares in case someone were to take them away for washing. Judging by the fact that the blankets were normally stained, weatherworn, and smelly, it didn't happen often, but no one was willing to risk Ms. Spectra's displeasure.

Or _pleasure_, might have been a better word. Ms. Spectra was cool as a cucumber, even when she raked a child with her very long nails or instructed many of the large hired help to punish them. While Walker abhorred rule breaking, Ms. Spectra seemed to flourish from it. Disobedience meant punishment. Punishment meant misery. The fact that her pointed her looked similar to devil horns did not go unnoticed, and many children crossed themselves behind her back, afraid that she was some sort of witch.

As soon as the folding was done, Danny immediately raced out in front of his bed, hands tucked behind his back, chin held high (but not too high), and quickly glanced down at his front as the other children copied him. To his panic, one of his overall straps was not fastened, and he fought to re-fasten the appendage with shaking, sweaty fingertips. Thankfully, someone was still smashing the pots and pans together, so there was still time. When the alarm stopped, everyone who wanted breakfast and to NOT spend a night alone in the ash-shed had to standing in front of their folded blankets, looking as neat as they possibly could. Thankfully, no one actually expected their _skin_ to be clean, else no one would eat at all. While their flimsy shoes had to be tied and on the right foot and their few buttons had to be fastened, their skin was almost always dusty and dirty from the great amount of smoke they bathed in every day, and the dirty coal and fertilizer they handled. There was nowhere to wash, though if you had to work outside and pack crates and such, you might get a shower in the rain.

Danny managed to fix his strap, but to his anxiety he noticed that the button was about ready to come off. Luckily, you couldn't notice by simply looking at it, but it wouldn't last for much longer. He would have to somehow steal away a needle and thread from the factory and fix it himself.

The clanging finally stopped. No child said a word. Most children's eyes were downcast. While they could so easily turn hostile, no one dared to be during inspection. No one dared make eye contact, just in case Ms. Spectra saw guilt in them, real or imagined. And Walker? He was the very boogeyman himself. Between him and the graveyard ghost, Danny had to probably admit that he would be much more likely to take his chances with an evil spirit.

The doors opened, and the children stiffened. Not one sneeze or cough, though many of the children spent all day coughing in the factories, particularly when it came time to shovel coal.

Danny kept his blue eyes on the dusty floor. He saw Walker's heavy boots drag in, and he tried to keep his face expressionless as Ms. Spectra's dainty heel fell into step beside Walker. The child stiffened and kept his hands behind his back, though his nails were digging into his palms.

Spectra giggled faintly as she passed one child, a boy named Collin with bronze colored hair and a speckled nose.

"Goodness. I hope you didn't wet the bed again this time. I would just hate to see you and your little friends go hungry because of you…." She mused, an absolutely malicious smile lighting up her pretty and terrible face. Danny's eyes flicked to the boy's now red face, feeling pity. Apparently, the boy hadn't had another one of episodes, because Spectra passed beside his bed without incident, and everyone in Collin's barracks visibly sighed with relief.

Danny tried to stay motionless as Walker approached him, his cold eyes boring down on him. The man sneered.

"Well, little Fenton, so cold. Don't you have something nice to say to me this lovely morning?"

Danny kept his mouth shut, though his stomach twisted with dread. He heard this one before; Walker would try to trap people with this sort of statement, even though talking during inspection was expressively forbidden. When they DID reply back, Walker normally had one of his goons drag the unfortunate child away for a hard day's labor at the bricking yard. Or, if Walker was feeling particularly generous, a mere twenty-five spankings with his belt.

It appeared, however, that the manager only wanted to taunt him. Chuckling at Danny's reaction, Walker moved away, and Danny's eyes flicked to the ceiling. Thank God.

Luckily, this morning passed without much incident. They all slowly trooped to breakfast, although everyone was itching to run.

**~(*0*)~**

It didn't matter how the food tasted; Danny had learned by now to swallow his meager breakfast as quickly as he could, even if he burned his mouth in the process. The alternative was a sea of spoons trying to dip into his food, desperate to steal a morsel. Interestingly enough, there was no sort of rule for trying to steal your neighbor's food.

If you tried to steal a scrap of the veal Walker had every Friday or the chocolates that Ms. Spectra imported, the story was that you would be baked for Sunday dinner. No one dared to mark it off as a joke; such was their fear and conviction of their masters' cruelty.

In the dining hall, Danny pushed his wooden spoon into his mouth over and over again, feeling that if he could into a pit of gruel, he most certainly would. While breakfast normally left him feeling disappointingly empty, the point was to get as much into you as possible before you began work. A couple of people fainted on the job every now and again, which might only result in a bucket of cold water being dumped on you.

Once he'd all but licked his dirty bowl clean, the child stood up with the others, who had no choice but to watch Ms. Spectra and Walker eat their morning meal at the front of the room: A plate of salmon and eggs and biscuits with jelly with juice and bacon. You were not allowed to sit down once you stood, and you could only stand when you finished eating. If you tried to eat slowly, there were others who were more than happy to pull your bowl out of your hands.

Spectra seemed to have to wipe her mouth after every bite with an embroidered napkin, oddly enough. But when at last they had finished, they stood, and lead the way to the workroom.

~*0*~

_Move faster. Move faster. Move faster. _

It was only nine o'clock that morning, and Danny was already very hungry again. Today meant a particularly large amount of work, as there was a new shipment of tea from the docks that needed to be packed into carriages. Thankfully, this meant today's work was relatively easy; he received boxes from an assembly line of people and raced them over to a cart by the entrance of the factory, waiting to be packed. While the boxes were often very heavy and made him stagger underneath the weight, at least he wasn't doing harder, more intrinsic work like pulling wires. That was difficult AND dangerous.

He glanced up at the workroom's clock, and prayed for it to be three, already. Three o'clock meant supper. Five hours later meant dinner and bed.

For everyone _else_, that was.

Danny's arms wobbled under a great big crate of ginseng tea, eyes watering at the spicy smell as he awkwardly stacked the crate, not even wincing at the loud THUMP noise it made when it slipped from fingers onto the other boxes. His mind was preoccupied, twinkling with hope.

As he began to hurry back to the line, where another box was waiting for him, his heart beat with purpose and excitement. His eyes wandered back to the open door, where the cart was still waiting. Once it was full, the man waiting would simply pull the reins, and the horses would carry the cart away to the docks.

_The docks._ Unfortunately, he could not run past the driver, who would only spot him and tell the guards, who would bring him back to his "warm and nurturing" home of the government, and beat him.

But what if he left just enough room on the crate for himself to squeeze in? It was incredibly risky, but if he timed it perfectly and everyone went away to lunch just as the last filled cart was taken away, people would be far too distracted by their hungry bellies to notice a small child just slip out the door for what looked like a last box delivery before he ran to catch up with the others. He could steal away on the cart, and drop off it anywhere at any time, OR could hide himself in a crate of tea, get packed on a ship, and be taken away to some strange and distant land.

Danny shivered as he grabbed another box, and hurried it over to the cart again.

England was a lot of things, but it was _his_ home. He wanted to see the countryside, but he didn't think he wanted a journey across the sea. Terrible things were said to happen-people got sick very easily, or attacked by pirates….

He was just imagining a flight of pirates taking the crate of tea he was hidden in, finding him, and raising him to be a scary and swashbuckling pirate when the doors at the second level of the factory noisily swung open. Spectra, Walker, and the rest of the guards curiously turned their heads at the noise, as did many of the children, despite themselves. Suddenly, everything seemed deathly quiet, other than the roar and clanking of distant machines nearby. Danny glanced up only to have his stomach turn, this time out of disgust rather than fear.

'_Oh, no_,' he thought. '_It's Mr. Collins_.'

Mr. Collins was a paid charity-undertaker, meaning that he usually arranged the funerals of those too poor to afford their own (usually meant throwing them into some ditch), although his specialty was dealing with the great and grand funerals of the very wealthy (which usually did not entail throwing them into some ditch). He was a short sort of man who wore heeled shoes in order to seem taller than he actually was, and was constantly running run of his fingers through his glossy, thinning hair, trying to look clever and distinguished. He had a pipe and made a point of smoking it when he talked to you, even though it made him (and several others) cough. He had a place as director in chief of the London Charity Society, and so Ms. Spectra and Walker liked him very much. They very often invited Mr. Collins over for tea, supper, and poker nights, which usually wound up in Mr. Collins getting some sort of present-a bottle of brandy, or a basket of chocolate, which he liked very much. These sorts of exchanges normally led Mr. Collins to press for more donations to the noble workhouses, which usually wound up in Ms. Spectra's and Walker's pockets.

Mr. Collins had talked for years of hiring a young assistant, but disliked the idea of paying one. Although you could adopt a child from the workhouses if you were so inclined, it very rarely happened-certainly no one had come looking in Danny's lifetime-and Mr. Collins had made his point very clear with his booming voice: the children here were dirty and would horrify poor Mrs. Collins to no end.

Therefore, when he wanted to look very important and impressive at funerals, Mr. Collins would usually come to the workhouses in search of a child to hire for the day. When he showed up, children were normally on pins and needles, dying to be picked. While the duties that Mr. Collin assigned were not very interesting, they were typically very easy; you would stand behind Mr. Collins and look grave and sad in borrowed black clothing, and you would his hat, his cane, follow him about, stand where you supposed to, and not say anything. The children described their visits to the fancy graveyards with some relish-it was one of the few times they ever got to smell damp grass and see flowers.

At the end of the funeral, Mr. Collins normally took the child with him to his home, and the child was given a plate of food to eat in the stables while Mr. and Mrs. Collins supped upstairs. _An entire plate of food_. Sometimes, when the work had run very late, the child slept in the barn for the night with the horses, with a blanket and warm, clean hay. Danny had longed to be chosen dozens of times, but it had never happened; Mr. Collins normally picked boys who had the appearance of looking well-fed, like Dash. He glanced around, and saw Dash staring up at Mr. Collins with a smug smile on his face, expecting his attention.

Whatever. Danny rolled his eyes, dropped off the next crate in his hands, and went back to the line to get another while everyone kept their eyes fixed on Mr. Collins in the midst of their work.

~(*0*)~

Walker warmly shook his hand, and Mr. Collins bent to kiss Spectra's. The green-eyed vixen cooed and fussed over the state of his shoulders, and the man laughed.

"Not to worry, dear lady, not to worry, I suspect that I will be growing fatter again when the summer comes. Early this Spring, everyone is getting ill and leaving me with so much work to do…."

Spectra made a big show of puckering her lips in the expression of sympathy and nodded; Walker offered to have the servant fetch him something to drink. Mr. Collins shook his head importantly as he withdrew his golden pocket watch, although he was aware he had several hours before the funeral.

"Can't, I'm afraid, simply can't, good chap…I have to hurry. There's a funeral being held for a very small child being buried to-day-the daughter of Viscount Edward has died from typhus."

"How awful!" Spectra exclaimed, fishing for her handkerchief to dab at dry eyes. "Poor little angel!"

The man nodded gravely.

"Yes, yes, indeed…therefore, in the name of respect and propriety, I shall need an assistant for the day. The child will have to stand in front of the procession, as there is no other child to do it, and the viscount did insist."

"Oh, please, feel free to it, our good man, feel free to it." Walker swept his hand carelessly out at the young boys, all but one were glancing hopefully in his direction. "Take any one you like."

Mr. Collins stepped forward on the observation platform, and his beetle-like eyes surveyed the area. There was that Derrick or Dash boy waving merrily at him, but no, he couldn't use him-the viscount would only think Collins was making a joke of it all by having a healthy and happy child at the funeral. No, no, that wouldn't do at all. The viscount regularly donated a fair sum to the board, and tax season was coming up; they couldn't afford to lose the viscount's generosity now.

He needed a very small and woeful looking child-he'd seen plenty of them here-to remind the viscount that the little girl was better off, wherever she was now. Someone to strike him with pity in his time of grief, and to gently remind him of the greatness of charity to the board. He needed someone who looked unhealthy, who reminded him enough of his little girl and who would unhappy, regardless of whether or not he'd actually known the child. A dark-haired person would be ideal, as black was symbolic for mourning.

Mr. Collins' attention was distracted by the only child who did not appear impressed enough with his greatness to look at him from his work. He did not know whether to pity him or to have Walker beat him mercilessly….

He noted the child's incredibly thin limbs, which looked like little twigs. Curious, he leaned forwards, gripping the railing tightly.

"Come, now…." He murmured. "Let me see your face."

As if the dark-haired fellow had heard him, he turned around to grab a-not-so-small crate, and carefully stacked it atop the other one. He rubbed absentmindedly at his face, and Mr. Collins was enchanted. Even from where he stood he could tell the child had a thin, cautious, world-weary face, and his face was strictly serious, as though the child were an adult in a little body. No boyish mischief in his face (the last thing he needed was a child making a fool out of them both at such an important event), nor was there any puppy fat on the boy. He was perfect. Mr. Collins could not have named a better substitute.

Mr. Collins immediately stuck his finger at the little boy, who had stacked the little boxes, and was now hurrying back for a large one.

"Him," he declared imperiously. "He will do."

~(*0*)~

_Was this some sort of sign?_

Danny flinched as Spectra started digging a wet handkerchief across his face. It smelled like her heady perfume, and he coughed, trying not to breathe it in. Spectra swatted him over the head, and he momentarily saw stars. Dazed, he looked up to see the red-headed woman glowering at him, her suet-sweet green eyes fixed in rage.

"You give Mr. Collins one bit of that at the funeral and I promise you, I'll lock you in the ash-shed with the dogs. You do anything to ruin that honorable man's reputation, and I promise you, you'll be dining on ashes for weeks," she hissed, dragging her wet cloth over his face so hard in that it hurt. "Good Lord, I think you're _still_ filthy."

Of course he was. What else could he say? Danny heard her curse as she next attacked his wet hair with a comb, and focused inwardly on his thoughts to distract himself from the prickles of discomfort he felt on his scalp.

Mr. Collins was waiting outside in his carriage, and a guard had dragged Danny up by the arm to the observation deck. Spectra had taken one look at him and insisted the boy needed an immediate bath. She'd taken him to the kitchen, told the cook to draw up a bucket of water, and the cook had immediately pulled of his clothing, scrubbing at him so fiercely that Danny had cried out. Once the boy was rubbed pink and clean, Spectra had hastily started squirting him with her own perfume, which was made his head swim. Now the cook was hurriedly wiping off his shaking, naked body with an old rag, and Spectra was continuing her losing battle with Danny's hair. With a curse, she asked Cook for some animal fat to grease it up-the boy thanked his lucky stars when the cook replied that there was none.

On the very same day that he decided to run away, he was being taken away for the first time in his life for a new situation. It would only be a day's work, of course, but he still flummoxed with the irony of it all. Was this a sign that he should _stay_? Did he try to slip away after the funeral, before, or during? What would Mr. Collins be like? Should he at least stay for dinner, if he were allowed to?

And what of the ghost? Would it really be there?

Danny shivered as he was wiped dry, and raised his arms so that the cook could thrust the black mourning-tunic over his front (it was a little big), and he grabbed the black shorts and underpants before Spectra could humiliate him any further.

Still not happy with his hair, Spectra sighed as she leaned against the sill, observing him over her spectacles.

"Now you look like a drowned rat, and half as charming," she said dryly, sighing. _'If only little boys were so easy to make up….'_ "Which, I suppose, is perfect for your situation. Heed my warning and do everything Mr. Collins tells you to, understand?"

"Yes, Mistress Spectra," said Danny meekly as the cook tied his boots on. Spectra narrowed her eyes.

"I hear one word of you fidgeting, I will personally beat you."

"Yes, Mistress Spectra."

"You disobey Mr. Collins' smallest request, and you will sleep in the shacks."

"Yes, Mistress Spectra."

A small smirk appeared on Spectra's face. She leaned down to Danny's level, and mockingly pinched his cheek before she seized the scruff of his clothes.

"You think of running away-try anything of the sort, and I will see to it that not only every policeman in London looks to drag you out of your rat hole, but _everyone_ in your barracks goes hungry until you return. Is. That. Clear?"

What, could this woman read minds? Terrified, Danny nodded. Looking appeased, Spectra nonetheless threw him back, making him stagger a few paces on the wet kitchen floor. She lazily dragged out a file, and began work on her red fingertips.

"Go. He's waiting for you," she said simply, and Danny all but sprinted out of there, body numb, mind clouding over with despair. Now, he had no choice BUT to return…

~(*0*)~

_'What a pretty place to be dead in.'_

So thought Danny as the preacher continued on about his speech about valleys and mountains and death and such. He stood perfectly still, enjoying the feel of the cool and clean March air brush over his skin, making his dark hair sway. But while he longed to turn his head to the sky and to the flowers that were at the corners of his eyes, he couldn't bring himself to. His blue eyes were fixed on the great casket he saw before him, ready to be lowered into the Earth forever. In spite of his own sadness concerning his imprisonment, Danny felt his eyes burn when he saw the viscountess weeping into a black lace handkerchief. That could have been his mother. The girl could have been his sister. But for a few social classes, she _was _his sister.

A tear streamed down Danny's face, and then another. Mr. Collins' dark eyes rolled to him, and the man gave the child an approving glance. He certainly hadn't told the child to cry, but it definitely looked very good. He shifted slightly, so that his page-boy might be more noticeable to the audience. Consumed in grief, Danny did not notice.

Feeling remarkably lonely, despite being surrounded by people, Danny squeezed Mr. Collins' cane and top hat a bit more tightly with his gloved hands. This was a beautiful place, surrounded by sweet-smelling green grass and flowers, but the air had a cold, absent scent to it that stank of death and loneliness. The stone cherubim here looked more foreboding than happy and peaceful, and their empty eyes seemed to be hostile, foreboding.

Speaking of hostile and foreboding….

This time, Danny couldn't help but glance nervously at the colossal tomb that was at the center of the cemetery, great and terrible all at once. There were more stone pillars than Danny could count, and the little white mausoleum was decked with stone angels and flanked by what looked like ugly, fanged monsters.

_Gargoyles._

So the boys had been telling the truth, to a point. Sure, the weather was rainy, but it often was, and Danny got a sense of sorrow coming out from the dead earth, rather than terror. There was also but little mist, and the wind wasn't screaming in his ears.

Dash had been exasperating.

Somewhat comforted, Danny returned his attention to the funeral, although he did wonder why so little plant life grew surrounding the great tomb. The few strands of around the tomb were brown and dull, and there were absolutely no flowers.

~(*0*)~

The wind did pick up, and the world did have somewhat of a threatening feel to it in the graveyard, though it was not overwhelming. After the burial, the Viscount and his sad-eyed wife came to talk with Mr. Collins himself, and a donation increase by 15% was spoken about. Mr. Collins tried his best to look mournful and serious, though he was as swollen up as a puffer fish over his success. Danny could tell. The viscount had gone so far as to pat Danny on the head and tell him to chip up in a hoarse voice before they walked away. Mr. Collins had given him an immensely approving glance when he was positive the two were alone at the little girl's now filled-grave.

"That was passable," he remarked, pulling out his pipe. Danny had to fight hard not to crinkle his nose. "Good fortune allows me to be charitable to-day; is there some small token you might appreciate?"

Danny stared at him, astonished. The man sighed irritably.

"Some trite delicacy, like a candy? Come now, don't be shy."

Candy? Danny only tasted candy perhaps once a year, at Christmas time. His mouth watered as his empty stomach nudged insistently at him.

But the answer was out of his mouth before he could stop it:

"Please sir, if it is not too much disrespect, may I walk to the grave down yonder? It is very pretty!"

The man cast him a derisive look.

"That again. It isn't haunted, you little fool. But I suppose you may, if only to appease the rumors of your fellows. It is only the grave of a sinner, and nothing more. You have ten minutes."

"But-"

Mr. Collins began to walk away towards the great black cemetery gates. He carelessly waved his hand.

"Go," he said dismissively, not bothering to look around. "My carriage will be waiting out front. Play."

~(*0*)~

This was an awful reward to have asked for and he hated himself bitterly for it, but now that he was here alone, he supposed he might as well approach it. Once he saw that it was a unremarkable grave for all its lavish décor, he would sleep better that night and have a story to share with the other boys.

And soon, there would be dinner. Mr. Collins confirmed that Danny would be eating that night at his home, and he felt in much higher spirits at the prospect, regardless of how unpleasant Ms. Collins was said to be. He cautiously made his way over to the large tomb, shivering slightly in the late evening chill. A bird croaked from a nearby tree, still in the bare, deathly throes of winter.

Danny could not read the inscription on the plaque at the foot of the grave, so he settled for peering up at the magnificent white tomb. He did not dare step inside, of course-it was sure to be locked as it was-but he kept a respectful distance from it, hands behind his back.

The wind played at his hair.

He wondered if the stories were true about the man. If he had really died in such a fashion. Was that why there were no flowers or wreaths around his grave, though his tomb was the largest?

His eyes wandered over to the new grave-the one owned by the viscount's daughter. It was carpeted in flowers, and even the older looking graves that had some wear at them had springtime flowers popping out of the hard Earth near them. Many had bouquets on them. Some of the very small graves had little presents on them.

His heart aching in his throat, Danny glanced behind him, and saw a large bed of flowers belonging to no grave in particular. Glancing around and ensuring that he was indeed alone, Danny turned around, walked to the little plot, and took an armful of fragrant little blossoms into his arms. He inhaled them deeply as he awkwardly walked back, dropping one or two flowers on the way. He carefully arranged them around the name plaque that he could not read, and once he was satisfied, went back for more, being sure to carefully pick up the little flowers he left behind.

He searched for different plots of flowers, and soon had the dull name plaque encircled by a little wreath of different-covered blossoms. Once he was finished, he sank down to his knees with a sigh, pressing his face into the cold wood of the plaque.

For a moment, stillness. And then, the very Earth before him exploded; grass and earth went scattering everywhere as a blue specter rose from the grave, bloody tears racing down his cold as death face, stake buried in his bleeding heart.

Danny's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as the ghost, just a few feet away from him, reached for his small form, moaning incoherently, imploringly.

His overworked heart stopped beating.

And the child fainted.


	3. Rectitude

~o*o~

The gray sky above him was a spinning blur above him when his eyes cracked open, and for a moment Danny thought he was stirring in bed after some particularly terrible nightmare. He shivered slightly on what had to be his bed, which seemed softer than usual. His vision was spinning wildly, and Danny only gazed incomprehensively at the obscure grayness about him, breath hitching when he recalled the fright in his dream that had made his blood run cold…

His head was throbbing somewhat, though he did not know why. Wishing he had his blanket back, Danny drew his small kneecaps to his chest, still dazed. If he _was_ back in the workhouse, he was not fully awake yet; he was still inhaling the sweet fragrance of green grass and flowers, which was making him giddy.

Hadn't his dream been a nice one? There had been fresh air and easy work, a breeze stirring at his hair rather than the hot blasts of the fires….the lonely sound of the wind rather than the shouts of his overseer, and Miss Spectra's cutting comments….there had been spring woodrush, buttercups, daisies and lilies….

….all scattered all over a little girl's grave. Danny's heartbeat began to race again as the fog obscuring his eyes began to lift somewhat. No. It had to be real, only it couldn't truly be real…..

A dreadful marble castle trapped in winter, which had loomed above humble little graves. He had stepped over mossy stones to get there, had listened to the speared iron gate clang dolefully as the wind had picked up…..

Shaking off the final dregs of unconsciousness, Danny found himself lying on all-too-real green grass, head inches away from a nearby headstone. He must have bumped his head when he had fallen. There was a scratch on his right hand, which was bleeding somewhat. Danny gazed at it for a moment or so as his vision cleared, and with a small sigh, made to turn his head forward again-

Before he could scream again, a black hand had hastily clapped itself around his mouth. Danny's powder blue eyes widened in astonishment and then terror as he found himself gazing at the selfsame demon who had haunted his dreams, his scarlet eyes sending bloody, gleaming tears trickling down his dark blue face. To Danny's horror, the beast was so close that its tears were dripping onto his own skin, and the blood was cold. Much too cold to belong to any human with a pumping heart that sang into veins.

It was staring down at him with a wild look in its face, other gloved hand still pawing at the terrible wooden stake buried at its heart, where an abundance of green liquid bubbled and frothed. Too scared to move an inch, Danny could only gaze at the grievous wound, stricken and disgusted. Oh, why did the ghost did not die with such a wound? But whoever heard of a _ghost_ being fatally injured?

Finding feeling in his body again, Danny screamed underneath the phantom's hand and kicked frantically, like a little fish ensnared in an enormous net. But the persona's other hand, green with blood, immediately pinned the small boy down to the Earth and held him fast. Danny thrashed, trying to shrink away from the great bloody hand but could not-it was pressing into his chest, holding him so tightly against the Earth that it hurt. Danny bit at the hand stifling him halfheartedly, but the appendage did not relent even the smallest bit, and so the child wearily dropped his head on the ground and closed his eyes, hot tears spilling out of the corners of his eyes.

The priest had been right; demons did come to fetch you when you had done something wrong. But what had he done, other than _think_ of running away from a cruel master and mistress? Was that so horrendously evil that the demon would devour his soul then and there? Or would the monster simply tug his prey to his enormous grave and drag Danny underground, leaving him pawing frantically at the air as the very ground seemed to swallow him whole?

Danny nearly fainted again from sheer despair. Praying that the monster would be satisfied with breaking his bones and eating him, Danny thought of his mother and sister, and feverishly prayed. Not daring to breathe, he waited for the apparition's hands to jump to his neck, for his eyes to haze over into red dullness, and then into darkness. He waited for the demon's long teeth to bury themselves into his body, and he braced himself, hoping that his father would not think him a coward for not bearing to look….

He waited…

….and waited.

Nothing came. Danny squeezed his eyes shut more tightly, filling up with anger. Dash often taunted him like so-waited until Danny hopefully opened his eyes when the blow he'd anticipated never came, and **then** hit him. This creature was waiting for him to open his eyes so that Danny could see himself being eaten alive.

He simply wanted it to end. And so he opened his eyes, shuddering with horror as he realized the bleeding eyes were still boring into his. He trembled against and the Earth, and braced himself for the bites, for the pain, for the belly of the beast.

But the creature only continued to gaze at him, and for the first time, Danny was struck by how terribly sad and pained the eyes were. He'd seen similar eyes at the workhouse, but so few of the lifeless children's eyes were filled with so much _agony_. Danny's eyes teared up, but could not look away.

After a moment of deathly silence, Danny managed to move his mouth away from the creature's hands, but did not try to scream. The specter allowed him to do it, and although Danny's mouth was extremely dry, he managed to speak:

"I-In t-the name o-o-of….."

How did it go, again? He'd heard of stories where sad ghosts approached humans seeking help, like the dead lady who kept scaring people away when all she wanted was a proper burial. A priest had finally helped her by saying something, but the child was too scared to remember much other than 'in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.'

More bloody tears dripped onto his cheek, and Danny's heart ached with pity for the ghost whom still held him fast. Mustering his courage, the boy asked:

"W-who are y-you, and w-what do you w-want?"

The ghost did not break his gaze-could ghosts understand words?-but he did cautiously pull back, take Danny's warm hands in his clammy ones, and place them on his chest, over the bleeding stake. The demon looked at meaningfully. Danny swallowed.

"You w-want me to p-pull it out?"

The ghost let out a groan, and nodded. Danny slowly sat up, looking uncertain.

"But won't you bleed t-to death?"

The ghost just looked at him imploringly. Without another word, Danny took hold of the wooden stake and tugged.

The specter let out a howl of pain as the stake was twisted in his body, and Danny let go immediately. But the apparition only insistently nudged the stake back into Danny's hands, and the boy seized it again, cringing when he heard the ghost's grunts of pain through clenched fangs.

It was certainly wedged in tight, and the creature's blood was dripping all over his shaking hands. Still, he staggered to his feet, and his brow shone in exertion as he tugged as hard as he could. What _was_ this thing?

The ghost's ragged gasps filled his ears, and Danny only tugged harder, with the biggest effort he had made in his life. It gave slightly, and the boy's eyes widened with hope as another inch of the stake began to slide out. And another. And another.

"Don't worry," he whispered to the sobbing ghost. "You'll be alright."

He pulled fiercely at the stake, ignoring the green blood that started spraying all over him. He braced his feet against the ground and continued to pull at the last stubborn few inches still submerged in the bleeding flesh. His hands slipped around the bloody wood, and Danny wrapped his suit jacket around the thing so as to have a better grip.

Then, at last, with his brow shining with sweat, Danny pulled the thing completely out, and went tumbling to the ground with a gasp, looking up just in time to hear the beast let out a scream, clutching his empty chest before immediately exploding into millions of pieces. The wind picked up and began to roar as the golden dust bits of the ghost were immediately carried away on a gale, which looked like a sparkling tornado of energy.

Stunned, Danny looked down at his hands just in time to see that the stake, still impaling a heart, was disintegrating into dust. Terrified once again, Danny dropped the telltale heart and sprinted away, tripping as he went. On the third time he fell, he lay there, breathing heavily as the golden sparks twirled about him in the air, looking all the while like there were dancing. He pressed his face into the ground and inhaled the scent of grass, waiting for it to be over, when-

"Good God, you stupid boy, get up."

Startled, Danny did as the voice bided; he found himself staring into the disapproving face of Mr. Collins, who was tapping his foot irritably.

"I said a few minutes; you've been here for twenty. Your time gawking at the fireflies is up, you little fool."

Danny continued to gawk at the portly man, who by now was checking his watch again, murmuring to himself.

"Lydia will be angry if we are late to sup…you might have done a good job today, but it wasn't _that_ good, and I'm holding you responsible if dear Lydia goes into one of her tantrums. Get up I say, you little wretch! Get up!"

Danny stood up, and his attention immediately went to the gray clouds restlessly churning about in the sky. No sparks, no dust, no stars. Breathing heavily, he checked his hands. Perfect. Calloused, but immaculately clean, save for the dirt he'd gotten on them whilst picking flowers.

But what of the blood, and of the suffering ghost? Still sweating profusely, Danny quickly glanced around the grave, shivering when he befell the pretty one supposedly belonging to the condemned man. But the earth was not dug up; it was smooth and hard. The only change Danny saw was that it was not covered in flowers he remembered picking.

Did it really happen? Was this the way ghosts left when you helped them-if you helped them? What if Danny had hurt the creature, and it was now truly gone? Had it knew what would happen if the stake was pulled out? Why was there a stake there to begin with? Was the ghost evil? Had it been cursed? Had Danny done something merciful, or had he released a pox onto the world? His head still hurt; perhaps he had fallen whilst picking flowers, hit his head on a plaque or a headstone, and dreamt the whole thing?

Out of the corner of his eye, Danny saw Mr. Collins striding out of the cemetery; he ran to catch up. The man cast him a cross glance, but said nothing.

"You got me quite a bit of money today, so I will not whip you. God gives grace to the merciful, such as myself."

"Yes, sir," panted Danny, running to keep pace with the man. "Thank you, sir."

"Although I might change my mind if you don't wipe your face immediately, you little pig. It looks like someone painted your face with green ink."

**~*o0o*~**

It was dusk, but there was no sunset. The clouds still moved about gloomily overhead, and plenty of the Londoners Danny saw outside the carriage were walking briskly into buildings, or pulling out umbrellas. The child fidgeted in the brown, box-like little cart and wondered again. Feeling particularly daring, he decided to ask a question to the man on the opposite side of the carriage.

"Sir?"

The man rolled his eyes, but gave a slight nod. Encouraged, Danny went on:

"Sir, my…friends back at Twelve would like me to ask you a question." He had no friends, but he had to play his cards carefully if he wanted to avoid getting stripes on his back. "About ghosts."

"More of that lunacy? Think nothing of it."

"But are you certain there are none?" asked Danny anxiously, wringing his hands. "Spirits, perhaps, sent from God? Surely someone as….ah….well, brilliant as yourself would know, and I dare ask no one else."

A smile fell on Mr. Collins' face, and upon glancing at the overly earnest face of the child, decided to have himself a little fun while scaring Danny. The man lay back, put his feet up on the bench Danny was sitting on, and made himself comfortable.

"Spirits," began Mr. Collins, "Barring our Great and Holy Ghost, do not typically manifest themselves in our world. Certainly a noble lady like Mistress Spectra would not remain chained to this world as a graying horror-her heart is too pure, too earnest, too innocent. God would immediately sweep such a worthy lady as herself to a clean and jewel-like world to give her a just reward. Wholesome souls do not stay after their body has passed the mortal coil; they are not abandoned."

"What about the angel Gabriel?" Danny blurted out. "Didn't he come back to Earth?"

Mr. Collins gave him a cross look, huffed, and rolled his eyes as he reached for the pipe inside of his pocket, as well as a box of matches.

"That was an angel, even as you say, you little twit," the portly man commented as he lit his pipe, carelessly throwing his match out the carriage window. "An angel is a good being, almost as holy as our dear God. If they are sent down to Earth to perform some task for Him, their divine status does not change. They were not forsaken. Now, will you do me the honor of continuing my narrative?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then shut up. As I was saying, the spirits that do walk about this Earth today are rarely seen by the unclean eye, such as your own. They are poor, pitiful creatures, destined for damnation, doomed to walk about the world in their horrifying state to seek penance they shall never fully atone for."

Danny was bursting with questions, but held his tongue, lest Mr. Collins remember that he had a cane to hit the child over the head with sitting right at his knee. He held his breath and tried not to inhale the putrid scent of the burning leaves, while Mr. Collins seemed to be drinking the smelly rings from the air, gulping them down. With a sigh of pleasure, Mr. Collins cast a lazy glance at the child after a while and continued, with all the satisfaction a storyteller can give to one they are holding in suspense.

"I would remind you of the genius Dickens' story published nearly twenty years-_A Christmas Carol_-but you're much too small and stupid to have read such a noble book. In the selfsame tale, a greedy and wicked man is accosted by the spirit of his equally wicked partner, who is forced to walk the Earth alone, without warm hearth for his weary feet, nor companion to hold his hand as he walks into the depths of the very sea. This spirit is being punished eternally for his transgressions, and he will never know rest."

Danny opened his mouth to speak, but by accident, inhaled a great deal of smoke, and coughed. Mr. Collins went on:

"That is the best example of what a ghost is. Most of the wicked shall writhe in a pit of fire forever, but some are so evil that they are denied this mercy, and are cast out into the cold and penetrating darkness. They pine for mercy, they grovel at the feet of the few that can see them; they beg for alms, for relief to their torment."

"And can they get it?" Danny blurted out before he could stop himself. "If someone helps them?"

Mr. Collins wrinkled his nose, but due to the money order sitting in his velvet-lined pocket, decided against beating Danny then and there for speaking without permission.

"It is most unlikely; God would surely punish the fools who tried to sully His divine justice, and I would not at all be surprised if he were to cast down the one who attempted to aid the sinner, who too is guilty of sin," he said gravely, nodding seriously as Danny paled considerably. "Absolutely. Considerably. Not a doubt about it. Indeed."

Danny stared at his folded hands, and tried to think of something else. For a moment, neither of them said anything; Mr. Collins kept peering into his pocket to make sure he still had the money order, and Danny stared out at the gray city outside the cart, faintly hearing a shouting man and the sobs of a woman past the tavern. He closed his eyes.

"Mr. Collins, sir?" he asked timidly. "The world does not seem a very friendly place for ghosts or humans."

"That is because it is the plaything of the wicked and the greedy," said Mr. Collins gravely, pulling out the money order and enclosing the paper in his fist. "You will learn that as you grow older, my boy."

**~*(o0o)*~**

The Collins residence was a nice one, though it was certainly foreboding to Danny's tastes. The iron gates clanked menacingly open when the two stood outside it, like the jaws of a Venus Fly Trap. Danny jumped slightly when the moaning doors closed shut behind them, and he scurried closer to Mr. Collins, who was lazily strolling up the gray stone walkway.

A maid uncertainly peeked at them while she clipped away at some flowers that had seen better days on a bush. Danny waved to her, but the girl only seized her basket of Rhododendron, and hurried away without looking at him.

The door opened before Mr. Collins reached it, and a tight-lipped man nodded mutely at them as they stepped inside, closing the door behind them. Danny swallowed as he took in his surroundings, anxiously fidgeting from one foot to another, feeling small and worthless in this dark, unfriendly house.

There appeared to be many windows, but they were all blanketed in heavy velvet curtains that looked stiff and just-so, as if they were not meant to be drawn. The chandelier above him swayed slightly, held up only by one quivering black chain, as if the links were alive, thrilling in the idea of breaking and causing several pounds of heavy metal and glass to come tumbling down on some unsuspecting head. Danny uneasily took a few steps away from it.

The house smelled like dry flowers, but it also smelled musty, and the air was cold. None of the candles in the many silver holders that seemed to cover every square inch of the threshold were lit, and the flowers in a nearby vase were wilting away in want of sunlight.

How very fitting that a funeral-director should live in a house so very much like a tomb?

A young woman with light blonde hair and a look of absolute terror on her face raced down the nearby steps, wildly chucking her duster away as she shouted:

"No! I won't do it! Never! You're a horrible woman ye are, and I won't spend another moment in your unclean presence! Not for all the soup in the world!"

Danny's mouth dropped. A shrill voice rang out behind her:

"A warning-if you don't immediately return and do as ye are told-"

"I shall find another dwelling!" shrieked the maid, sprinting past Mr. Collins, who was too busy admiring his reflection in a nearby mirror to take much notice. "If they pay me and my son but a scrap of stale bread, I should be infinitely more at peace than under your service, you scurvy, heartless knave!"

With that, the maid wrenched the door open and ran outside, her wild laughter eventually fading away into silence. Danny stood rooted to the spot as a woman began to climb down the staircase, looking haughty. After a moment of admiring his tie, Mr. Collins turned his attention to her, sounding faintly bemused.

"Another one, dearest?" asked Mr. Collins wearily, rubbing his brow. "That's another one we'll have to replace…."

The haughty-faced woman shook her head as she continued downwards.

"I shall take pains to see that the little pig won't earn another position," she said simply as she approached her husband. "Nor will her son, in the workhouses or anywhere else. She'll come groveling back, to be sure, and I must ask the priest to forgive her, for God certainly will not. She is a wicked, defiant thing, and I am glad to be rid of her. Now," she barked, moving her dark eye over to the small boy. "Who is that, husband?"

Mr. Collins kissed his wife upon the cheek, and said simply:

"This is another workhouse child, my dear Lydia, and-"

"Get him out of the house," she said promptly. "He is a dirty beast."

Mr. Collins nodded sympathetically, but then held up a hand to stop her.

"Oh, he is most certainly is, and he's not bright, but he did a passable job at the funeral. I thought you might like to know of today's profits."

The woman straightened immediately, and her dour expression became honey-sweet.

"Oh, clever husband," she purred. "You procured a donation? Excellent. There never was a doubt, but-"

Mr. Collins showed her the money-order; Mrs. Collins produced a pair of spectacles from her pocket, and took the order. Her eyes widened, and she read over it again. And again. At last, when satisfied, she stuck the crumpled piece of paper into her own pocket.

"Why, husband dearest, bravissimo!" she gasped. "I never anticipated such a sum….how did you manage this?"

Mr. Collins bowed low.

"Only the best for my lady love," he said, rubbing his fat fingers over his mustache. "I think the boy helped-he certainly didn't hurt things. The lord felt the good stirrings of charity after looking at the pathetic boy."

Mrs. Collins took one look at Danny and sniffed.

"I can see why," she remarked. "He is a sorry looking creature, like a drowned rat, only I feel no pity for a drowned rat-only contempt. But you know the strange ways of nobles; they have a peculiar way of looking at things. I wish you had brought Dash; he was such a charming young boy."

"I know, dearest. But perhaps tonight we should celebrate and open a bottle of wine for our success."

"But the boy may not join us. I do not like children, dearest. Dash is a cherubim; a rarity."

"I know, Turtle Dove. But since we have one less person in the kitchen to-night, perhaps you can give the boy some tasks to complete for you. You shall not have to pay him a farthing; he does not re-turn until tomorrow."

Now, Mrs. Collins liked this. Still, she gave Danny a cross glance, as if it were all his fault that he were standing there to begin with.

"I suppose so," she sighed. "But he still eats and sleeps in the barn. And do tell Bessie to scrub anything he touches in the kitchens extra hard."

**~*o0o*~**

Needless to say, Mrs. Collins was not much better than Mistress Spectra, but at least she left Danny to scrub the floors in relative peace. Of course, he had to wash them until two of his fingertips began to bleed, but the woman held her handkerchief about her nose when in the kitchen and was very keen to leave the common quarters. Which was very lucky, considering it allowed Danny to do his work without excess mocking, and it permitted two of the maids to spit into Mrs. Collins' soup bowl.

Worn out by the events of the day, Danny was starving by the time supper was ready. He only got a few mean rations of meat scraps, but a kindly maid actually stole him a bit of bread Mrs. Collins had at first insisted be saved for her fat cat Maddie. It was oily and hard, (Mrs. Collins insisted it be thrown away, lest Maddie choke on it) but it tasted wonderful to Danny, who was so overcome by the maid's generosity that he wept.

When Mrs. and Mr. Collins retired to bed that night, they were deep in conversation.

"We wouldn't be adopting the thing, dearest. It would only mean an indentured servant whom you did not have to pay and whom could help me at the services," he coaxed. "I know you don't much like the look of him, but he's a good investment. Feed the ungrateful dog whatever bits you might choose, and direct him as you see fit. He will not be able to get work anywhere else, for they shall ask for his papers, and he will not be able to supply them. He will not have any unreasonable temper tantrums when he realizes you are his eternal mistress. When he is larger, and not quite so pitiful-looking, you may give his contract away to a chimney-sweep if you like, my sweet."

"'Eternal mistress,'" repeated Mrs. Collins as she settled into bed. "I do like the sound of that."

"Then it is settled? We shall take him back tomorrow, and pay dear Walker and Spectra for his papers. He can easily be moved into the stables as early as tomorrow afternoon."

"….very well, dearest. Let's do as you see fit. I do, however, ask that you purchase a new whip while you happen to be in town."

**~*o0o*~**

Danny shared the stables with two large, agreeable horses, one named Prince, the other Lady. The stables had a leaky roof and it was cold, but Danny made his nest of straw near the horses, where it was warmer. He fed Lady oats from her bag and patted Prince's muzzle, which he could just reach if he hopped.

What a day. He had planned to be heading to the countryside today, and now he was spending it some strange stall. Spectra's threat still echoed in his mind, making him very much afraid.

Should he flee, anyway? Spectra said that the constabulary would only snatch him in a section; but was it an empty threat?

A bitter smile fell on Danny's face. Spectra making threats she did not actually mean to enforce. The thought almost had him giggling.

Danny snuggled into his straw and tried to ignore the sound of the mice squeaking nearby. At least they weren't rats….

He tried his best to not think of the specter he probably only dreamed of at the cemetery, though if it were real, he hoped he'd done some genuine good. Those sad red eyes…..

Exhausted, he closed his eyes and thought no more.

**~*o0o*~**

Far, far away from the gloomy Collins abode, where the dusty and cluttered London rooftops finally came to an end, the city docks were closing business for the night. The wind whistled and moaned over the restless black waters of the English sea, and raindrops pelted hard against stubbly cheeks. Though the rain fell like an icy curtain and the cold blasts of wind bit at people's heels like an angry hound, the sailors were in good cheer as they bustled away from the ships, good-naturedly swearing oaths at their fellows and blinking through the storm as they made their way into town. The trading-ships from India had arrived to the mother country just that afternoon, and now that the day's work was over, it was time to relax and make merry.

Eager for the returning sailors' business, many tavern-keepers chose to set up their businesses close to the pier, though the signs of their establishments were soon eaten away by the salty air. No one minded however, particularly at the Inn of The Laughing Wench, which was filled almost immediately with customers after the iron bells rang to signal the end of the workday. The sailors who didn't immediately get a place in line (very often they would brawl over a spot) slumped away towards other inns with dejected scowls and slumped shoulders.

Some said The Laughing Wench's popularity had to do with the ale they served, which didn't taste like dirty laundry. Others said it was the lusty and glittering eye of Mrs. Hobbs, the fair and curvy barmaid and tavern-keeper. The most dry and honest of the sailors however, were more likely to comment that the beds The Laughing Wench kept were the least likely in town to be crawling with vermin.

Inside the shabby, smoky little establishment lit only by lanterns and candle-stubs, voices boomed from every corner. Drunken singing often broke out amongst spirited groups of men, and prostitutes wandered from table to table, with men eying their breasts and the women eying their pockets. Particularly rowdy sailors occasionally began to beat each other over some trifle, much to the amusement and delight of the fellow customers. People called for bottles of rum and downed foaming tankers of beer; they shoveled down plates of corned beef with their bare hands, they swore and spit and threw catcalls at the unlucky performers on stage. The wealthier sailors might be smoking, and the fumes filled up the entire room.

Overall, everything at The Laughing Wench was the same as it had always been on its busier nights. Maids who had their behinds pinched whilst delivering food smacked drunken sailors upside the head, the reeling drunks were thrown out into the street or wandered upstairs to the bedrooms-nothing really stood out at all.

Excepting the man at the bar, whom had a curious gap around him in the tiny, overcrowded space. Not a pair of sober eyes in the tavern did not glance at him, and rare was the mouth that did not whisper some comment concerning the strange man in a friend's ear. Some sailors gathered 'round their companions and talked of buying the stranger a drink so that they might pepper him with questions, but for some reason, no one dared.

Every sailor in The Laughing Wench was tanned by the hot sun glaring down on them during a long day's work. The strange man's hide however, was deathly alabaster in comparison to theirs; almost startlingly so. He was remarkably tall, taller than many of the sailors here, which most disliked. They stood on their tiptoes when surrounded by their friends and held their heads up as high as they could, as if to make up for it.

The man's hair was not matted and stringy-it was _clean_, gleaming silver, tied back in a neat ponytail. His attire was quite positively the strangest thing of all-certainly not something you found in even the most ludicrous of London's fashion magazines. The man wore a black and white tunic, with white leggings, dark, well-polished boots, and a long cape that flowed out beneath him. On the outside, it was white, which matched most of his attire, though the inside of his cloak was a bloody red.

"Looks like the bloke's tryin' out fer a position in da London opera, ah Loretta?" commented one curly-haired maid to her friend, unsuccessfully trying to mask her smile with her hand.

Loretta nodded, eyes keen.

"Indeed he does. I wonder if tis some sort of prank of the nobles, sending such a bleach-white bundle of bones in our midst, all made up like some loon in a play. His clothes look like they was from two hundred years ago, they do."

"Aye, they do. Indeed, I reckon that's a sword I see at his side! By jove, he looks like a prince in one of them stories."

"Yes sir-like a lord. Scary thing."

But by far the most unsettling quality of the man wasn't his attire, or his well-kept fingernails, or the fact that he had a tall mug of beer at his side that he would not touch. It was his eyes.

The man's eyes were cold, hard lapis lazuli stones, and the most uninviting sort of things you'd ever seen. Even the bravest of prostitutes who'd ventured forward to him had been cowed by the unmistakably hostile looks he sent in their direction, which sent them scuttling away into corners, where they eyed him resentfully. The man's face was set into a scowl, and he kept checking his pocket watch, looking tense. Some burly men watched him bemusedly at a nearby table while they played cards.

"He's got some wench to meet here, to be sure," commented one sailor as he lay down his cards. "And he needs be getting back to his mistress soon, else there'll be trouble for him."

But as soon as the barman approached him again, the strange aristocrat turned his attention to the man, and opened his mouth to speak. Many of the more curious hushed themselves immediately, interested in watching the display.

The man spoke. He sounded hurried.

"Barkeep, do you know of a fat man in town who regularly walks the cemeteries with young boys in a dark uniform?"

His voice was low, rich, and deep, like that of an old dusty volume in a library long-since forgotten. It was tight with importance, and slightly arrogant, as if the man were accustomed with authority and used to having orders meekly obeyed. The balding man wiping at a filthy wooden mug gave him a bewildered look, and immediately dismissed him as a lunatic.

"Why, there are many fat priests in London who walk around the cemeteries with young alter server lads at their service. You're thinking of one of them, no doubt."

Agitated, the man quickly shook his head.

"No, no. The boys wear dark suits-a suit, I should say, as it seems it is the same suit every occasion, though there is always a different lad wearing it. The man they walk behind directs the funerals by law, not religion. He is a charity-man of some sort, though he often takes charge of the burial of many of London's wealthiest. He is portly, travels in a little gray carriage, and calls himself….blast!" he cursed softly, thinking intently before his eyes brightened. "Ah, yes. Mr. Collins."

Many in the bar tittered; the bar turned his head and sighed.

"Aye. He'll be diggin' a spot for all of us, and certainly not 'cause we's London's finest," he growled. "I'd rather be buried at sea than wind up in a hole dug by that pompous bastard. Or commissioned by, rather, as I can't see that man doin' a lick of his own dirty work. You've figured it out, so there you are." The man turned to leave him.

"Wait!" cried the silver-haired man. "What of the boys in his service? I cannot believe the man can hire all of them-where do they come from? Why do they work for him? Where can I find them?"

The man raised an eyebrow and sneered.

"Maybe I do know," he drawled, "And maybe I don't. My memory could use some clearing, it could…."

The barkeep nearly quailed under the hideous stare that the cold-eyed man gave him, but the stranger's hands still went for his purse. A voice nearby called out:

"Come now, Peter, I know you're of little money lately, but there's no reason to charge the fellow for information he can get anywhere else."

The bartender's expression soured and he turned away; the silver-haired man's head turned.

A young man with chestnut-colored hair, pleasant dark brown eyes, and stubble all about his chin raised his mug to the man, not seeming to mind the unfriendly aura the man had built around himself. Standing up from his three-legged chair, the young sailor approached the stranger and cheerfully extended his hand; after a moment's hesitation, the stranger took it, though reluctantly.

"Hallo," said the young man politely. "My name's William, it is. Though Will for short be just as fine. And yours?"

The man silently appraised William for a moment, and then sighed.

"….Vlad."

"Vlad, eh? Interesting name," commented Will, drawing his chair up and noisily dragging it across the bar. "Interesting clothes, more like, but no offense meant to ye, good sir. Now, ye said that ye are lookin' for the boys that prat Collins likes to pick on."

Vlad nodded, still gazing at Will steadily. Apparently, Vlad decided that he could trust him, because he went on:

"Just one lad. I must find his dwelling posthaste."

Will took a sip from his tumbler, though he gave Vlad a strange glance.

"Why?" he asked, wiping foam on his chin. "Collins is a rat-faced pansy, he is, but if you mean to report him for some wrong-doing, you have no case. He's one of the most respected men in town, for some godforsaken reason. Reporting the devil and his bride won't do you much good, either."

"' the devil and his bride,'" repeated Vlad, a strange look appearing on his face. "Why, what in the world do you mean?"

Will moodily took another swig from his tumbler, downing the rest of its contents in one gulp. He wiped away the foam from his face, sighed, and began:

"I mean exactly what I say. But enough of that; if I speak of them anymore, the bottom of my stomach shall rot out, it will, and I will lose me supper. Mr. Collins regularly goes to Workhouse 12 to pick up some poor lad who has to bear with his bluster the livelong day, 'cause the man loves holding that sort of power o'er the little 'uns," said William, ducking as a stool came flying at his head from a nearby scuffle. "He knows the wretches love the chance to get away from that corner of hell, so they'll be his meek little lambs and make him look a charitable saint in front of the board for 'feeding and clothing' so many orphans. It is a falsehood, it is. He hires a lad every so often to 'assist' him with the funerals, and they all wear the same little uniform, passed down many times. And while he supposedly pays them for their work by feeding them before they're returned, the food is almost, as God is my witness, _ALMOST _has as sour a gall as that evil woman, Mrs. Collins."

"You speak with much conviction, and bitterness akin to wormwood," noted Vlad, turning carelessly as a wooden mug came flying at his own head, and smashed into the wall in front of him. "Peculiar for a sailor to know such things."

William wearily shrugged his shoulders.

"I lived there as a lad," he confessed. "In Workhouse 12, I mean to say. The wicked wench woman had not yet darkened its doorstep, but I can believe the appalling sort of rumors I've heard about Walker's new lady. They say that Mistress Spectra slaughtered Walker's old wife by inviting her to a party, poisoning her, and thereafter ground her bones into flour for loaves of bread to be distributed to the poor."

"Come now, man. Do not speak such nonsense."

Will laughed, but it was a hollow sort of sound, and the merry hue had faded from his face. He pulled his hat from his head, and wrung it in his calloused hands, not looking at Vlad.

"Yes, well, a woman worthy of winning that bastard overseer's heart is no saint. I can tell you that much, I can. Walker is the supervisor of Workhouse 12, and there is no workhouse for charity-boys more effective than his. Effective, indeed! Who will not work diligently when there is a tiger watching ye every move, waiting to eat you alive in the cage you share? When my mother ran off with some stranger, I found work there," he said,, mouth twisting, grip on his hat tightening. "Oh, I have often thought it better that I'd simply died on the streets! It is a nightmare in the house. A living nightmare. Walker eventually threw me out because I was not in custody of the state, and they were not obliged to keep me-thank God! He also said I had a defiant eye and that I ate too much-ha! I ate no more than anyone else, for we only ever got three servings of gruel a day and I often ate less than others, because the hungry boys tore my food away from me."

Some drunken sailors hopped onto a nearby table to start dancing a merry jig. Vlad handed his own untouched drink to William, who accepted it gratefully. After taking a sip at the amber contents, Will leaned back against the bar and stretched lazily.

"Shorty after God delivered me from that loathsome place, where the flour in the bread is red from all the brick dust, I became a boot shiner, and found odd jobs whenever I could. Eventually, I heard that the Dawn ship needed herself a strong cabin boy, so I signed myself up. It's a rough life on the seas, it is, but not a bad one. I thought I'd come back to England one day and find me a nice lady and adopt a child from the workhouses, but it'll never come to pass. No one's ever bothered to actually adopt one of those lads because you need a sizable income, which a sailor doth not find unless he be a pirate. And I scare the ladies away with me raw hide." He smiled, though his eyes remained sad.

Vlad ordered another drink for Will, and neither of them said anything for awhile. When Will finished downing the contents of Vlad's tumbler, he curiously asked:

"So, you won't be reporting Mr. Collins in, are you? Now that ye know it is pointless."

Vlad drew out an old-fashioned golden pocket watch from his cloak, and frowned, looking troubled.

"No. That was never my intention. As rotten as ye make these people sound, it is no business of mine what they do or do not. I am looking for a particular child, so that I might take him away with me."

Will had begun to drink his third beverage, but his eyes goggled out and the man abruptly spewed it on the floor in shock. Vlad closed his eyes, disdainfully trying not to notice.

"Why, you mean to make him your servant?" gasped Will, immediately resizing Vlad's strange, albeit flamboyant apparel again. If he were a kind master, he could probably afford to give a child three times the amount of food he was used to receiving in the workplace!

Vlad shook his head.

"No. I mean to make that child heir of my estate. I mean to adopt him."

The entire bar fell deathly silence almost at once; even sailors smacking each other round the face with dead, stinking fish turned their bruised and gawping faces in the direction of the two men. A heavyset, middle-aged woman started fanning herself while her husband fell out of his seat and hit the floor. The barkeeper Peter's mouth had dropped open, and his cigar had landed in the drink of another sailor, who was too stunned to notice. Vlad would have been remarkably less shocking if he'd hopped upon a table, and shouted his intention to become head ballerina at the London ballet.

William's eyes filled with tears.

"You best be telling me no lies, sir, I'll be very unhappy if you are, sir, are you sure, sir? Don't befuddle my heart now and give a man hope-that's cruel, sir, it is. Why, you must be joking, only I hope to God that you are not!"

Vlad's cobalt eyes swept carelessly over the stricken bar, and the man turned in his chair again, arms crossed.

"I do what I have said I would do, and that is that. There is a child-I fear I don't know his name-but one I'd recognize anywhere."

William pulled out a filthy handkerchief, and made to start dabbing at his eyes. Vlad handed his own fine handkerchief to the man, being careful not to touch the sailor's dirty fingertips.

"Oh, you are a good man, you are," said Will fervently. "God bless ye, sir! You are a good man. There is a special place in heaven for a noble creature like yourself."

The bar broke out in murmurings, with plenty of people casting each other bewildered glances. Vlad shuffled uncomfortably in his seat at Will's praise, and growled,

"The boy in question has done me a service, and I shall repay him. I must find him before tomorrow's dusk, and convince this devil man and woman ye speak of to relinquish him to my custody. They will not dare to refuse me."

William hiccupped, still wiping away tears.

"They ask that you pay ten pounds to receive the papers, sir," he said warningly. "A most expensive-"

"If they want ten, I'll give them a hundred," Vlad snapped, pulling out his pocket watch again and paling. "If they want a hundred, I'll give them a sovereign."

Will smiled, but still looked worried.

"In that case, I think they shall be happy to have an orphan off their hands. However, Walker will not approve if he knows your intention, good sir, so I recommend you tell him that you need a stablehand you can beat every now and again."

Vlad snorted.

"Whatever works; I don't much care."

"But what if, by a millionth of a chance, the child you seek is not there?" asked William. "It has never happened in my lifetime, but…."

"Then I shall find him, and convince his masters to hand him over to me, for I can pay them a crown. I'll have no other brats from the workhouse! I shall only have this child."

"What does he look like?"

"Startling blue eyes of an honest lad….pale skin….dark hair. Small hands. Somewhat nervous, so he trembles."

The sailor shook his head.

"Well….it may be a job finding him if ye don't know his name," he said doubtfully, hopping off the chair. "But I believe that if you truly mean to find him, ye will. Good night, good sir Vlad." The sailor turned to go.

"Wait," said Vlad suddenly. "You know the workhouse?"

"As well as I do me own nightmares, sir."

"Then you shall make this easier; I ask you to accompany me tomorrow as my hired hand. We'll find the lad quicker that way."

Looking pained, William shook his head.

"While I should love to be of service, I fear I cannot," he said sadly. "Tomorrow, my ship leaves for the Virgin Islands, and I must be there to help unload all the boxes of goods the merchants wish to trade. We leave at dawn-there will be no time for me to assist you."

He turned to leave again, but Vlad grabbed his coat.

"How much are you paid a month?" he demanded. William blinked.

"Oh, well….perhaps four shillings a month, so a shilling a week, I'd daresay. I'd probably have more, but I must buy all my supplies from the blasted company store-"

Vlad crudely yanked the startled man back to his seat, reached into the leather pouch around his waist, seized something inside it, and dropped fistfuls of metal into the sailor's lap. Will picked up one of the pieces for further examination, and all the color drained out of his once pink ears.

"Good lord," he whispered. "Good lord."

It was certainly not like any piece of gold William had ever seen, but much thicker and heavier in his palm. With a gulp, the man turned over the coin he held, marveling at the intricate stamp upon it. Why, that was Queen Elizabeth's face, it was! He tentatively bit the coin; it was real. Swallowing heavily, William turned his enormous eyes back to Vlad, who carelessly dropped one, two, three, four, five more pieces onto Will's already generous pile. More than five years of wages right there. Feeling weak and liable to faint, the dazed man looked back into the noble's humorless eyes.

"Who _are_ ye?" he asked in wonder.

"I am a man who knows what he wants," said Vlad curtly. "And one with little time. I ask that you join me tomorrow as my servant, and help me collect the child so that I might bring him home."

"But-" Vlad impatiently threw another coin into the pile, and, upon realizing this was not a dream, William's face broke out into a radiant smile. He carefully tipped the coins into his own purse, checking carefully to ensure that there were no holes in it. He tied the strings of the bag around his neck and buttoned his coat over it, face still shining with happiness as he dropped to one knee.

"My hand is ever at your service, my lord," he pledged, smiling broadly as Vlad nodded coolly.

"Yes, yes, that will be fine. I suggest we leave immediately-tis almost dawn. I have a carriage waiting outside."

With that, Vlad strode out, and William stumbled after him, still trying to collect the feeling in his legs.


	4. An Exchange

Phantom Lullaby

An Exchange

~*oOo*~

Okay, I realize this chapter took some time to come about, but I really hope you all enjoy!

**A Wild REVIEWER Appears! LAUREN uses HASTY EXCUSE in order to make amends!**

**It's not very effective….The REVIEWER dodges, and reviews LAUREN's story! LAUREN's health points go up! 2+**

**Uh-oh! The REVIEWER uses DEMAND! LAUREN ducks and uses HIATUS!**

**The REVIEWER uses FLAME! It's super effective! **

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~*oOo*~

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><p>When Danny opened his eyes the next morning, something was wrong. His head was so heavy that he could scarcely lift it from the straw-covered ground, and he swore he could feel something <em>tugging<em> at his hair….

A whinny and a puff of hot air on his cheek. The boy groaned, and automatically pushed against the warm snout he knew would be there, though the effort made the world spin before his eyes.

"Go away, Lady. You can't eat me, silly horse."

His voice came out hoarse and slightly cracked. When the chestnut horse wandered away, Danny slowly sat up, and had to put his head between his knees. He tried to clear his throat to rid himself of the gravel-like tone, but winced; his throat burned as reproachfully as if it had been rubbed with sandpaper. The child sighed.

_Great._

The room where he slept with the other boys was small and crowded, but at least it was usually fairly warm from the heat of all the bodies. In the summertime, it was unbearably hot, and people woke up in puddles of sweat, if they indeed slept at all. The stables had been chilly last night, and though the rain had ceased falling overnight, the roof was still dripping generous amounts of water inside. Danny touched his nose, and found it wet.

Well, he supposed it did not matter very much. He stood up, stretched, (boy, but his back did hurt) and reached for a nearby water bucket, pleased that he could splash his face for the first time in months. It felt lovely, though the water was cold.

Once Danny thought he looked fairly presentable, (at least to the point where Mrs. Collins would not bother herself with throwing things at him) he dressed in his gloomy, workhouse attire, and uncertainly hovered around the horses, not certain as to what to do next. Did he report to Mr. Collins, or wait until summoned?

He decided to wait; Mrs. Collins had winced with every step Danny had took on the stone floors of the great house last evening, and insisted that a maid come to mop the floors. He had a feeling that Prince and Lady would be infinitely more accommodated in the house than he, and Maddie the cat above them both. He could see why; Maddie was Mrs. Collins' favorite creature, the sort who nuzzled your hand and purred so that you would pet her, so that she could in turn bite your hand.

Danny peered out the windows, and sighed in pleasure, though he still physically felt awful. The sun was out to-day, and while he was disheartened to know that he would soon return to awful Workhouse 12, it was still such a pleasant treat to see the great gold orb sparkle overhead. Even the twisted and gnarled iron of the menacing black gates seemed to look less scary when bathed in light instead of darkness. He shivered as the cool morning air played over his face, and he dreamed that he were indeed in the countryside, surrounded by tall stalks of green grass and blue rushes.

What if he took either Prince or Lady, and ran off now? No; he could never steal anything, nor take the horses away from their home. It would be unspeakable, and in any case, he'd be captured immediately as a criminal. Danny painfully gulped as he imagined a noose tightening around his neck. No. Better return to the workhouses until he was old enough to make his own way or until he simply dropped dead, like so many other children around him.

He fingered the worn, glassy exterior of a marble in his pocket and sighed.

Danny wistfully remembered his dear friend Tucker, who had lived and worked in Workhouse 11. The boys had met when the two workhouses had combined during a particularly busy season on the assembly lines; Danny had noticed that Tucker kept getting hit around the head by his supervisor because the poor, nearsighted boy kept making mistakes with the packages he was supposed to be tying up.

Thankfully, Tucker's supervisor, while cross and mean, was not nearly so fanatical on the subject of rule-breaking as Walker was, and was more interested in productive labor. Danny convinced the man to allow him to switch places with the dark-skinned boy on the line, and Tucker had sat next to him on the benches as the two wolfed their meals down later that afternoon. Before the boys had been dismissed to bed, Tucker had slipped him a pretty blue marble in his pocket that he claimed had come from his deceased father as a word of thanks.

Danny's felt a sweet sort of sadness. The two had become fast friends just under a year ago, had whistled through the fence at each other on the rare Sunday afternoons the children were free to go outside, surrounded by high fences. Tucker had eagerly spoken of the enormous clock that they were building in Trafalgar Square and of its mechanics, but it had seemed too bizarre a concept for Danny to grasp. Still, it was pleasant to have someone to talk to and whistle at when talking was prohibited.

But that had been before Tucker had started coughing, day in, day out, to the point that the child had coughed up blood while they were both on the assembly line. When Danny had gone to Spectra and pleaded her to bring in a doctor to look at him, she'd hurled one of her stilettos at him, and it was the only by the skin of his teeth that he'd managed to escape with his head still attached. He'd tried to take care of Tucker, but there had only been so much he could do for his friend while they remained in different workhouses.

In the end, Tucker had died within a few weeks, and Danny had watched Mr. Collins take his friend away to a pauper's grave. If Danny died anytime soon, at least he could be sure of a friend.

Still shivering, Danny lay back down upon the straw and waited to be called upon.

~*oOo*~

"You aren't so bad at this business," Mr. Collins remarked as Danny got into the little carriage. "At the very least, you might be an effective clerk for a respectable undertaker such as myself one day."

"Thank you sir," muttered Danny, thinking that he'd much rather be a garbage boy.

They were heading back to Workhouse 12, and while Danny's shoulders sagged when he remembered how much work there was to be done today, he couldn't say that he was sorry to leave Mr. Collins. Mr. Walker and Ms. Spectra were both beastly, but at least they could be counted on to usually leave him alone.

Mr. Collins observed Danny for a moment, carefully rubbing one of his chins with an ashen finger. "Boy, today is a very important day for you."

Taken aback, Danny gave the man a curious glance as the horses started to trot, and the carriage began to drift down the street.

"Why, sir, what is today?"

Mr. Collins laughed like an indulgent father and patted Danny on the head, drawing back extremely quickly as if he feared dirtying himself.

"You will learn at the Workhouse, my dear boy. You will be happy to know that through my efforts, you are to be granted a nicer position in life if you continue to be so…so successful." The man smiled a wet smile, and Danny leaned back in his seat, twiddling his thumbs. "You must keep me in your prayers and thank God for my being sent to you."

Danny knew Mr. Collins wanted him to keep asking what the dickens he was talking about so that he could repeatedly confuse and frustrate his charge, so he refused to play his little game. His attention turned instead to outdoor London, where the world was slowly waking up and getting into the hustle and bustle of a new day.

Later on, the fact that he had thought such on that day struck Danny as most peculiar, though right now he only felt dread. Whatever Mr. Collins meant about an opportunity, it could almost certainly mean nothing good for him.

~*oOo*~

"Is this the place?"

Well-dressed in a fashionable tuxedo with a crisp blouse and tie at his throat, William just swallowed heavily, his young face distinguished with lines of anxiety. "Aye, I know these buildings as well as I would know hell if I ever glimpsed it, sir."

Vlad just raised an eyebrow and stepped out of the carriage, neatly dressed in a dark suit with a trailing waistcoat, shining boots with silver buckles, and a red bow at his throat. "Save the theatrics for later, William. I want to find the boy before nightfall. I'm on a very busy schedule."

The chestnut-haired young man awkwardly bobbed his head and murmured respectfully. "Yes, m'lord. We start from Workhouse 1, and work our way to 12 until we find him. There must be a dozen Daniels, but if you're sures he's here….and you can remember what 'e looks like…"

Vlad's cold, glassy eyes took in the graying buildings lumped together like boxes of bricks, or several tombstones with a great amount of smoke rising out of their chimneys.

"Of course I can," he said briskly, his gloved hand tightening over his glossy black cane. "Let us away."

~*oOo*~

Back to the smell of rust and sweat and woodshavings. Back to the hot rooms of people desperately avoiding the whip and stretching their necks out for the carrot, which was always kept just out of reach of teeth to gnash upon it. Danny looked down at Walker and Spectra's kingdom as they graciously exchanged small talk with Mr. Collins, and felt sicker than he did before. His throat was really starting to bother him, but he knew he would have to wait until the water buckets were passed around later that afternoon.

Apparently, Spectra and Mr. Walker had forgotten about him, for no one had ordered him back to his stadium. He wondered if he would be yelled at for retreating back to his workstation or if he would yelled at for standing around like a 'foppish oaf,' or whatever that was. He shifted from one foot to the other, waiting for Mr. Collins to tell him that he could go.

"Anyway," said Mr. Collins, wrapping up a long and very boring story Spectra and Walker were pretending to play rapt attention to, "That reminds me of how very difficult my job is. I hate to have to keep mucking up production by taking away a random worker every time I need a charity-boy, but you do know…." His voice became deep and regretful. "The dead do need someone to service them…"

"Oh, but of course, of course!" exclaimed Spectra. Danny felt mildly sicker, but he resisted the urge to upchuck his breakfast. Mr. Collins beamed at her.

"For our mutual benefit, my wife and I have decided that we shall feed and house a charity-boy of our own," said Mr. Collins cheerfully.

The factory went deathly silent. Dozens of the little workers were peering up at the platform in astonishment, and the guards gawked too, too distracted to whip the children for neglecting their duties. Even Spectra and Walker looked slightly aghast; nothing could have prepared them for this.

The bottom dropped out of Danny's stomach. '_He doesn't mean you_,' he thought desperately, the world trembling all around. '_He doesn't possibly mean you, he means Dash, he wants someone else, and you can go back to work and not worry about dead people chasing you around the cemetery all the time_…'

Spectra was the first to regain her composure. "Well," she said, smiling charmingly with her lips covered with generous amounts of rouge. "That…that is very kind of you, good sir! You're quite the gracious shepherd, finding a stray lamb to take care of. But are you quite sure—"

Mr. Collins waved her off.

"Of course, of course! My wife and I have discussed this in great length. We mean to have a child come and be our servant. He will work with me at funerals and assist my wife with whatever tasks my darling needs to do."

Spectra cast a bemused look at her husband, who only shrugged. Much as she disliked the idea of losing a worker, she supposed it would be one less wretch to look at it and feed and clothe over the long winter. Besides, buying the contract of a work-boy from her and Walker would mean some profit. What was a stray boy here and there? She'd sell them if she could.

"Which lad?" she asked, peering down at the sea of faces. "Who should I call for?"

"No need, my good woman. He's standing right there beside you."

A hundred eyes fell on him. Danny nearly fainted then and there. Mr. Collins laughed.

"Ah, look how shocked he looks! He is stricken with joy, I am certain. Not to say anything poor of your care, sir and ma'am," he added politely to the couple beside him. "Come hither, boy."

"Yes, come hither," purred Spectra in a voice that was sweet as honey and just as dangerous. Though he felt his limbs about ready to give out under him, Danny made himself approach, aware of all the poisonous glances he was receiving from the workers below. 'If they only knew,' he thought sadly. 'If only they knew!'

He should have run away last night, regardless of Spectra's consequences. Well, perhaps not, but now he felt like he were approaching the cracked gate of an unending and veritable hell. Mr. Collins was not so bad, but Mrs. Collins….

So much like Spectra, who would pay SO much attention to him. Danny shook as Walker's voice boomed out.

"Well?" he barked, glowering down at Danny as Spectra ordered another boy to fetch Danny's contract. "What do you have to say, boy?"

Danny's lips shook, but he held himself firm because he _mustn't cry, mustn't cry, mustn't cry_. He managed a weak mockery of a smile and turned to look up at Mr. Collins, contemplating jumping off the platform and killing himself then and there. "I say…"

"_I_ say that you had better wait; I declare the existence of an impediment."

Hundreds of heads swiveled around; the doors below were being held open by a young man while an older man strolled neatly in, dressed handsomely in a suit and fine cloak fastened with what appeared to be a ruby clasp. Boys broke out murmuring in awe; the man easily looked like he could perhaps be a mayor. Or a duke. He was dressed all in black, as if in mourning.

His silver-topped cane had a stern _tap, tap, tap_ rhythm when he moved it on the factory floor that was strictly no-nonsense, and his slightly disdainful look made him seem like a man very much accustomed to getting his own way. His silver hair was tied backwards into a neat little tail, as if he were _bourgeois_. Without a word of invite from Spectra, Walker, or Mr. Collins, the man simply strode up the stairs, with the younger man scurrying up after him, sending nervous glances all about him.

Spectra gaped at him. Walker was looking at the younger man behind the stranger and frowning, as if he were trying to figure out where he'd seen him before. Mr. Collins was giving the stranger a very cold look, beady eyes unhappily eyeing the man's obvious finery. Danny just stared at him. The eyes he saw were an unfamiliar dark blue, but the shape and size was vaguely familiar.

Mr. Collins cleared his throat, grasping for some control of the situation.

"I beg your pardon, sir?" he said coolly as the boy hurried back to Spectra with Danny's government-issued contract. "You seem to think you have some business in my affairs."

"You have made it my business," said the stranger coolly, his eyes falling to Danny. They narrowed, but not altogether unkindly. "Boy. Your name is Daniel, is it not?"

Danny found his voice after a moment.

"Y-yes sir," he said shyly, wondering what this was about. The silver-haired man nodded shortly, as if he'd received some confirmation, and turned to Spectra and Walker.

"You are the proprietor and proprietress of this…this establishment, correct?"

Walker nodded suspiciously, mean eyes still fixed on the quivering, brown-haired man. Slowly, recognition entered his eyes, and he chuckled.

"Well, now. If it isn't little William," he sneered, and Danny's attention turned to the trembling man beside the wealthy visitor. "Tell me, are you still dreaming of giant rats and wetting your bed?"

Danny's heart ached for the man; but the chestnut-haired youth glanced at the man beside him, and then c Walker a very ugly look before making himself stand up a little straighter. But before he could open his mouth, the stranger stepped in.

"He is my servant now, whatever he once was to you," said the man shortly. "I wouldn't advise you slight him, or you will deal with him, or what's worse, you'll deal with me, for a servant is a connection of my own name." His blue eyes became slits. "And you do not want me as your enemy, good sir. It would be highly…unpleasant."

Split silence. Danny realized his mouth was dropped and hastily closed it. No one, in ever living history, had ever the nerve to threaten Walker, or look like he might actually get away with pulling such a threat! He made himself bite the inside of his mouth to keep away the enormous grin that was on the servant's face.

Spectra tried to laugh; it sounded high-pitched and strained in the stillness.

"Well, we certainly would not enjoy that," she said, trying to smile seductively at the man, who clearly wasn't taking the bait. "Good sir, if you could do us the pleasure of giving us your na—"

"Lord Vladimir Mauvais Masters," said Lord Vladimir Mauvais Masters. One of the guards dropped his stick with a loud clatter. A lord. A lord had come to visit. If he approved of this place, he might be persuaded to give patronage!

Spectra's smile widened, and she gave a little mocking curtsey. "Well, my lord, it is such a pleasure to meet your esteemed persona. Might I fetch you a cup of tea…a glass of wine…"

"You need not trouble yourself with anything," said Vlad shortly, gesturing to the boy with his cane. "You need only give me the boy's papers so that I can take him with me."

Sharp intakes of breath; Danny felt himself freeze on the spot. Mr. Collins' eyes nearly popped out of his head.

"I beg your pardon, my lord, but this boy is mine." Never mind ingratiating himself with a noble; his wife would kill him if he didn't bring Danny home! "If you're so mad on finding a charity-boy to work for you, find another one." His arms swept high in the air, over the stunned workers below. "There are dozens of the little creatures—they pop up like little hares and mice!"

"Forgive me if I say this, but I am very particular about my…_little hares and mice_," Vlad said coldly, his eyes terrible. "You do not yet own this boy. How much is his contract?" he barked at Walker, and the man fumbled. Fumbled. His guards were awestruck and disturbed.

"J-just…seven shillings, but—"

"Then I will pay you fourteen," said Vlad, and Danny saw white. The sum was improbable, more than he had ever seen in his life, and someone was offering that over _him_!

Mr. Collins gulped. He wondered how he would ever explain this to his wife. "I…I will pay fourteen also, and trust that my friends will do the right thing, as I _was_ here first," he croaked, wondering why Spectra and Walker would not look him in the eyes. Vlad smiled derisively.

"And if fourteen will not do, then twenty-one, and if twenty-one are not sufficient, then seventy. Make your decision."

The one named William frowned at the bartering, came forward and then clasped Danny by the shoulder. The child looked up at him with wide eyes, and the young man smiled in a sympathetic fashion. Danny decided immediately that he liked William.

Mr. Collins blustered. "You…you cannot be serious! You show up to snatch the whelp that is mine—clearly, this is some form of wealthy sport, to bid on goods that you do not want or need for the sake of ruining an honest man! You are a cheat, sir!"

"Such words," said Vlad softly. "If money will not stay your objections, perhaps you would prefer we duel for the lad."

William pushed Danny to steady him when the poor boy was about to tumble backwards. All the angry color had drained out of Mr. Collins' face, and the man was left puckering like a fish.

"I…I—I would, really, but…but I have no guns or swords upon me!" exclaimed Mr. Collins triumphantly. Vlad shrugged and turned to William.

"William, fetch the weaponry in the carriage out back. I am certain Mr. Collins will not object to using one of my swords—"

"T—that is completely unnecessary!" stammered Mr. Collins, sizing Vlad up and looking terrified. "I am an esteemed pillar of this town!"

Vlad sneered. "Is that so? I wondered why it seemed such a filthy shithole." He gave a careless nod in William's direction. "Pay Mr. Walker and Ms. Spectra their due for the contract. The boy is mine."

William cheerfully dumped out the contents of a purse around his waist in a flabbergasted Walker's hands, and deftly snatched the contract out of Spectra's hands. "Thank you, good lady," he said in a voice that was much too polite to be sincere before he grabbed Danny's hand.

Mr. Collins struggled to retaliate. "W—wait! You cannot do this!"

"Perhaps," said the Vlad coldly, cobalt eyes brimming with contempt, "You have too much cake in your ears, Mr. Collins. I have just won."

Despite the roar of the machines, you could have heard a pin drop. Vlad nodded again, giving a distasteful look around the place before he marched smartly down the steps, with William hurrying after him and pulling along a blank-eyed Danny in their wake.

Walker looked angry. Mr. Collins looked ready to have an apoplectic seizure.

But Spectra's eyes could have burned a hole through solid sheet metal.

~*oOo*~

**Uh-oh, will be seeing this nasty trio again? (Yes)**

**Okay, this chapter might have been slow, but it's all plot-relevant, people. :) Things heat up next chapter. Hope to see you then! *Waves* Reviewers get my love. :3**


	5. Beneficium accipere libertatem est vende

**Well, it's, ah, been a while. O_o A loooong while, and yet people still send reviews for this story…welp, I think my Danny Phantom kick is mostly done, but then again I haven't tried writing for the fanbase for some time, so who knows. **

**I'm a little disappointed by this story because it seems too similar to other people's work, but considering I have precious time left before school and work start, I might as well embrace the opportunity. **

**Um, as you might have guessed, _Hetalia Axis Powers_ more or less stole my heart away. ^_^; **

**I'm like Doctor C from Jimmy Neutron…I'm rotten at finishing….um….finishing….things! ;_; But I will update and see what you guys think!**

* * *

><p>It was a strange dream, made all the more impossible by the fact that a warm, rough hand was indeed tugging him out of the factory into weak London sunshine. Eyes stinging, Danny slipped on cobblestone and scrambled to keep up with William's stride.<p>

He was not certain whether to feel elated or terrified at this bizarre change in fate. Certainly he hadn't wanted to go with Mr. Collins, but what would working for a very rich and powerful man like a _lord_ mean? Would he be allowed to eat as many table scraps as he liked, or would the man clap Danny in irons, as the slaves in America had been kept in? He nearly fell to a stop at _that_ thought, glancing uncertainly at the fingers wrapped around his wrist.

Maybe it wasn't too late to bolt.

Danny's eyes flew to the stately figure in front of them, glossy cane _click-click-clicking_ against the pavement sternly, like the tongue of a disapproving overseer. Was Mr. Masters an agreeable master, or would he be like the wicked Bluebeard, who cut people into pieces? He felt a pang of panic recalling Vlad's willingness to shoot Mr. Collins to bits—although to be fair he wasn't alone in the sentiment.

But Vlad singled him out when he could have his pick of orphans for less. _Why? _He desperately tried to think of an instance where he'd seen the man before. No; he definitely would have remembered such gleaming silver buttons that he'd probably be beaten for touching, or such a pair of cold, stormy eyes.

_'Mama, Tucker, Jazzy, what can all this mean?' _

William cast him a kind look, squeezing his hand. Danny remembered Mrs. Collins and felt better.

The lord came to a stop, pulled out a small watch from his breast pocket and frowned at it. "Well, that took longer than expected. I must confess I wasn't expecting them to be quite so difficult."

"Neither I, m'lord," said the manservant sympathetically, squinting overhead. "Though ta be 'onest, I don't suppose they ever seen such a thing 'fore." He snickered darkly and slowly shook his head. "That was sharpish, m'lord, it was."

Danny opened his mouth, desperate to get a word in, but Vlad cut him off. "It would have been quite _something_ if we'd been able to move in and out as planned." His serpentine voice was tighter than the strings of London's whalebone corsets. William grinned and shrugged abashedly like a schoolboy.

"I s'pose we're a bit off schedule, aren't we?"

"Very." The man slowly turned around in the sooty-damp street, his fine garb getting a great deal of ogling from passerby. "And that is unacceptable, William. We'll need to make haste if we're to make it out of London by tonight."

The youth tipped his brown head obligingly. "Does m'lord have an appointment to keep?"

Vlad snorted and looked away. "Of sorts, yes. You," he snapped, rounding on Danny and making him jump. "Boy, whatever is the matter with your rags? They're positively filthy."

Danny's stomach twisted. _Well._ "Beg pardon, but my clothes are not so bad, my lord," he placated hoarsely, glancing down at himself. He'd even washed up a little this morning. Danny thought he probably looked nice, if not so nice that he wore a ridiculous silk hat.

"They're _rags_," the lord insisted, and the child's countenance burned red with anger and shame. Well, what was he to do about it? He'd never held a copper in his life! William cleared his throat, pawing the ground nervously. "M'lord, the workus boys get one standard uniform, and—"

"I don't need to hear any of your excuses," said Vlad brusquely. "William, you will drive us to the nearest tailor and see to it that the boy is fit up well. As befits one from my house."

Danny looked up at him in surprise, but the servant instantly declared an affirmative and began pulling him along again. "And for God's sakes, for our sakes and for the well-being of this stinking city, _try to learn how to drive_."

~o*oOo*o~

He stared, awestruck. He once thought Mr. Collins' shabby little horse-pulled buggy something magnificent; he never thought so again. Several curious vagabonds were flooded around Vlad's carriage, which shone proudly in the dirty road like a living jewel, snappy red and polished ebony, brand new with gold leaf trimmings. As Vlad impatiently approached the carriage through the small sea of poor (_who immediately scattered away, like humble geese around an approaching fox_), Danny paused to stroke one of the large stallions pulling it, patting its nose with something like reverence.

_'It's like something out of a fairy tale_.'

The steeds were beautiful, immaculately well kept and proud, snorting and tossing their heads to the side, as if they wanted to show off their impressive manes and noble crests.

William held the door open and bowed respectfully as Vlad ascended in without a word of thanks. Danny waited for him to close it and to help him onto the driver's bench, but instead the man scooped him up and set him on the seat opposite the lord, who was not looking at him.

"Don't I sit outside with you?" he asked uncertainly, stomach curdling unpleasantly like souring milk. He ran his little hands across the plush velvet and shivered again, this time from pleasure. It was softer than any bed he'd ever slept in.

William gave him a surprised look.

"Have ye lost your marbles, lad?"

"No," said Danny earnestly, pulling his small treasure out of his pocket. "I got it right here."

At that, William burst out guffawing, and even the corners of Vlad's mouth twitched slightly. Shaking his head, the manservant closed the door, climbed the driver's platform outside, and immediately cracked the whip. The team of horses hurtled into the street and a split second later Danny yelped as the car lurched along with it. The forward momentum was so swift and so unexpected he flew onto Vlad's bench, just avoiding landing on him.

Gulping and not knowing where to look, a red-faced boy meekly retreated to his own seat, swallowing heavily and trying not to wince. His throat still hurt.

"My…my lord?" he asked timidly. Surely in real life he would never dare to address a nobleman unless spoken to, but seeing as Danny was skeptical of the entire affair's reality, he was beginning to wonder if he could get away with anything.

The way Vlad's hooded eyes bore into his own, hooked into them so that he couldn't look away, gave him a plaintive _no_. He tried hard not to shake.

"I…I…" _Please don't challenge me to a duel or rip my tongue out_. "T-thank you, very m-much for…um, purchasing me." The words were wrong in his mouth; he felt like a parcel thanking its buyer and _hated_ it. "I promise, whatever you want me to do, I shall work very hard and—"

"Yes, yes, whatever," The man interrupted him irritably, waving his hand. "I don't _care_ what you do."

Reproved, he went hot and turned to the window. He only braved another glance or two at the scowling man, thumb rhythmically tapping his glass cane top.

His long, gloved fingers were drumming at his side, and judging by how fascinated he was with the empty seat before him, remained deep in thought. Danny returned to gazing outside with wide eyes, watching Londoners conducting their business for the day.

The more handsomely dressed maneuvered around sorry-looking vagabonds who sat in their shadows, dirty hands opened for alms. Constables came every so often in smart blue uniforms and shining helmets, impatiently shooing beggars and drunks away like so many of the dirty pigeons that frequented the city.

The birds seemed especially fond of the large and spectacular fountains hailed by stone statues, gushing so much water the very ground seemed to shake. Before Danny could stop himself, he stuck his head out the window to gawk at them as they sped away.

Enraptured though he was with drinking in the new sights and smells that drifted through the air, some acrid like sewage and horse dung, others wonderful like freshly baked bread whenever they passed a bakery—it was hard not contemplating his new fate, or his peculiar and moody master.

Well, from what he already understood, lords didn't really have much to do with their servants at all. Even if Vlad were quiet and cross, he didn't bluster and yell like Mr. Collins, nor did he seem to radiate the same sort of catlike cruelty that could only belong to his ex-mistress, Ms. Spectra. Danny's spirits rose, hope dancing on them like light on water.

With any luck, he would be assigned some kitchen task or would do laundry, or something. That way, he could spend as much time as he liked with William, who was certainly very nice. He fidgeted in his seat, lightheaded.

Maybe he'd had been selected to be a bodyguard of sorts one day for the lord, although that seemed ridiculous considering that there were children like Dash towering over his scrawny form. But maybe he would be _trained _to become strong, to be like William and run at Vlad's side with a sword in his belt.

The boy's stomach lurched as William made a sudden right turn, very nearly sending his passengers flying again.

Or perhaps he would be trained to become a proper carriage driver. He could only hope.

~o*oOo*o~

* * *

><p>After an hour or so of William's mad driving, Vlad stuck his head out the window and shouted for him to stop. The manservant all but charged the team into a brick wall judging by how hard Danny smacked against the door, but stop they did and William helped the two out into a bustling plaza.<p>

Vlad said he had some business to take care of across the street, so it was William who led the shy boy up to the tailor's little shop.

A tinny bell rang softly as the two entered the shop, an ancient old woman looking up from her work at her desk, peering at Danny through large spectacles. Her expression darkened when her eyes fell on Danny's homely attire, but brightened considerably when they wandered to William.

"And what might I do you for, good sirs?"

Will bobbed his head graciously. "Da little 'un needs some new clothes," he said simply as the old woman gazed down at Danny, staring at his feet. "Befitting a lord, if you please. Thirty minutes tops."

The old tailor frowned. "Such a price, sir, would be…" William immediately slapped down a gold coin on the dusty counter, making the woman's eyes bulge. When another piece joined the first, she immediately swept them off, pocketing them and allotting them both a gracious smile. "But of course," she simpered, bending down to Danny's height with some difficulty. "My young lord. Onto the footstool with you, and I'm sure we can find something very nice to suit your needs…"

Danny was so shellshocked that William had to lift him up on the old three-legged stool the woman provided, already ready with a long measuring tape. As she carefully measured his tiny limbs and frame, he awkwardly turned to give the servant a baffled look.

"_Lord_?" he mouthed, feeling ready to sway off his feet; the man steadied him. William bowed playfully, smiling broadly. "But of course. Pleasure to be in your service, Master Danny."

This was so perplexing and unfamiliar it was frightening. He was joking, joking, joking. What sort of trick was that to play, even on a workhouse child? "Why are you doing this?"

He wanted to thank him but he was at a loss. Perhaps this was a lovely dream inside of England's prestigious insane asylums.

"I have to obey my master's wishes," said the young man simply as the tailor scribbled down the measurements, muttering to herself. "And if he wants you to be bathed in gold, by gor, you can 'spect o' William to do it, one way or 'nother."

"But _why?"_ Danny insisted as the tailor scuttled off to the backroom. "We're not family. My sister would've told me if we were related to a lord."

"You have a sister? By God, I dint realize dat. Why dint you say so earl'r? The master mighta rescused the poor little chick if he knew she were your sister and—"

"She's dead."

William bowed his head, the merry twinkle fading in his eyes.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said quietly, watching as the tailor bustled back into the room with an armload of fashionable-looking fabrics. "Ond don't you worry 'bout Lord Masters. He might seem a little cantankerous, the devil strike me down for sayin' so, but he really is a good soul. Ya get used to his sturliness soon 'nough."

"How long have you been in his service?" Danny asked, feeling a bit better.

"Oh, fer nearly a day now," said William cheerfully, leaving the poor boy more confused than ever. "Actually lad, I was hopin' to ask choo somethin'. What _did_ you do for him?" he wondered, looking on bemusedly as the tailor ordered Danny to strip and hold his arms out again. "Rescue his firstborn? Pull a lady love of his out of the jaws of death? Why, ya musta done somethin' good. He 'nly made me hunt ya down, sp'cif'cally."

"But that can't be," protested Danny, scrunching up his face when the tailor began washing some excess dirt off him with a damp rag, tsking. "I've never met him before in my life. He owes me nothing."

William snorted. "Well, he sure seems ta think oth'rwise, by shore. I think he was 'bout ready to tear apart the workhouses 'part lookin' for ya, woulda got the constables 'volved if he thought it'd be of ony help."

"But why?"

"Damned if I know, to be sure. Oh, dat looks v'ry 'andsome, it does, yes! We'll take six more of the like, please. And where can we find a good shoemaker?"

~o*oOo*o~

Danny admired his reflection in a nearby puddle as the lord continued to harp on about things he could not understand, something about schedules and time frames and documents and the like.

No more did he look like a mere workhouse boy, a maggot (As Mistress Spectra so oft had referred to him as) of humanity, festering in wet, garbage strewn alleys. He looked princely, in soft fabrics that felt very pleasant—if a little stiff and stifling at the neck—draped against his skin. He wore a crisp white shirt with a velvet black suit jacket and matching black shorts, a ribbon choker with a small stone set at the throat and Danny tried very hard not to keep stroking and admiring it. It was pretty and deep blue, like his marble still clenched in his fist.

Even if his old clothes had been discarded, he couldn't forget his first treasure.

But look! His half-ruined, miserable shoes had been replaced with shining loafers with actual buckles, his matchstick legs were mostly covered by ink black socks that hid the scratches he got on a daily basis laboring at the brickyards. Dizzy, he spun around in a little circle, wondering perhaps if he died in some factory accident and ascended into heaven, this beautiful world. No, it could not be heaven, for there were no angels and still plenty of poor, but….

He hadn't realized Vlad and William were watching until he heard the latter chuckle. "We onderstan ya look right v'ry nice, Master Danny, but we gots some work to do."

Flushing again, he nodded and slipped his hand into the servant's, not understanding that was unseemly. William didn't either and if Vlad thought so, his bored eyes only flicked to the two of them and back ahead.

They walked for a little while, stopping at little odds and ends stores, usually for Vlad to make orders for things. For all the lord's talk of being very busy, he seemed very distracted, eyes continuously stuck on the traffic flowing around them. But he looked neither cheered nor amazed; he seemed more disappointed, perhaps a little unnerved of what he saw around him in the sea of human traffic. Maybe he'd never seen the city himself. Maybe he lived in a giant mansion and was uncomfortable in the face of so many commonality.

Danny hungrily drank in everything about the city, although he never had long to look. Everyone was always _moving_, and doglike William insisted on matching Vlad's stride, meaning Danny's arm was practically pulled out its socket.

Suddenly a warm and inviting patch of light caught his attention and he turned to look at it, feet immediately coming still. William dragged him along a few paces before coming to a reluctant pause. "Master Danny?"

As strange as that was, the sight in that window was stranger; smiling china ladies dressed primly in silk frocks and ribbons. Blocks decorated with charming little pictures and set with brightly painted letters, open books to pages stamped with colorful ink, rows of tin soldiers at smart attention, little drums and shiny bells, a sleuth of stuffed animals, many of which wore clothes. Danny was transfixed by the sight of a rabbit—he'd never seen a real one before, never knew wild rabbits wore blue jackets.

"Well, let's go in," Vlad said dryly, and Danny thought he might have heard a hint of amusement. "Seems that something's captured the boy's interest."

Before he could protest William steered them all inside.

A jolly-looking fat man looked up from his newspaper behind the counter, smiling genially. "May I help you gentlemen today?"

"The one in the blue cloak," The lord said shortly. The shopkeeper beamed at them.

"Oh, Peter Rabbit! He's based off a new children's book character, very popular, by Beatrix Pot—"

"I," Vlad interrupted. "Do not care. Fetch the plaything."

"I-I'm fine! I don't…" Oh, if only the others could see him now, how they'd _hate_ him, and he was so overwhelmed he felt like bursting into tears not entirely of a happy nature. But he couldn't help his longing gaze.

"Look, Master Daniel," said William kindly, bending over to whisper in his ear as the shopkeeper offered Peter to him. He stared into the Rabbit's dark button eyes, which gazed back. "You can't keep tryin' to refuse y'lord's gifts. Why, you keep that up, and he's gonna think you're a real uppity ingrate for all he's tryin' to do. You want that?"

"No sir!"

"Then shut yer gob and enjoy it," he said simply, and Danny slowly took Peter into his arms as carefully as if he were accepting his firstborn, cradling it. He carefully touched the toy's cheek, shivered at its softness, and buried his face into it, stroking the long ears. For a moment, the world at large disappeared, and all there was Peter, so soft, so fuzzy, so his.

"Did you ever see such big eyes!"

Danny jumped about a foot in the air and whipped around as if he'd heard a gunshot. Despite Vlad's rudeness the shopkeeper was beaming, and William had his arms tucked behind his head as he grinned ear to ear. Vlad looked…puzzled, although he was trying to mask it with a particularly bored look.

"You're awfully fond of that little thing," said the lord carelessly as he took a bunny wearing a pink frock off the shelf, scrutinizing it. "Wouldn't you rather have a toy…_gun_—" Vlad said the word as if it were distinctively new to him "—or something? I remember a toy sword when I was a lad, though I never had much patience for play things."

Danny shook his head quickly. He didn't want to risk offending the man, but he certainly didn't want to lose his dear soft rabbit for soldiers. "N—no, sir," he said quickly. "I'm fine with just P—Peter, thank you."

The man looked at him for a moment. Danny thought it was rather hard to make out Vlad's expressions.

"Are you certain? You'll get tired of that thing soon enough, to be sure. Allow me to warn you: I have no need of a child's incessant whining on our journey."

He wouldn't dare whine. "I won't, sir. That's a promise."

Vlad sniffed quietly.

"A question, boy: Who is the rabbit's nemesis?"

Danny just gawked at him stupidly for a moment. What did the word mean?

Vlad raised an eyebrow.

"What is…um, that is to say, m'lord, what is a…"

"You could say that Peter's archrival is Mr. McGregor, who tries to capture Peter when he finds him in his garden." The shopkeeper said brightly, bustling over to the two. "In the story, he'd already caught Peter's father, and baked him into a pie." Danny shuddered.

"But you could also say that Peter's rival is Mr. Todd, who is a very unpleasant character." He picked up a sly looking stuffed fox elegantly dressed in a trim waistcoat. "But he never really has a confrontation with him, so I guess it's more accurate to say that Mr. Todd is Tommy Brock's rival." He scooped up a plush badger with a very large smile on his face. "Tommy Brock tries to roast Peter's nephews, however."

Vlad studied them both carelessly. "We'll take them both as well too."

Danny turned red all the way from his ears to his toes.

"Oh….b-but Mister…um…" he flustered. "Well, um, m'lord, you don't have to do that, I only want Peter…"

"Be quiet," snapped Vlad as he handed the animals to the bemused child. "Just take him. William, pay the man." As William scurried to do just that, Vlad took a toy soldier and turned it over in hand.

"I had a set of soldiers when I was a boy," he murmured, almost to himself. "To say they are unchanged this day and age are untrue."

Danny looked at the stuffed badger he'd been given. It really was very cute, what with its large, charming smile.

Vlad set the toy down and glanced back at him. "I've never known a badger to eat a rabbit, although from the sound of that story it certainly wouldn't mind. Devious little thing."

"Not my badger," murmured Danny before he could stop himself. "My badger isn't Tommy Brock. He's a nice badger. He's friends with Peter."

Vlad snorted in derision, and Danny nervously shifted from one foot to the other under his scrutinizing stare. "Is he now?"

He clapped a hand against Danny's head, tossling the hair messily.

"The nature of a beast is ever-present." The man headed towards the door and William nearly tripped over his own heels trying to open it for him. "Even if you tame a wolf to trot at your ankles, its true nature will always be howling at it to bite you. You would do well to remember that, my boy."

Danny decided Lord Vlad What's-his-name Masters had the nicest way of being mean he'd ever seen.

~o*oOo*o~

After William lifted him up into the carriage again, Danny amused himself with playing Peter, Mr. Todd and Tommy Brock. He wished Tommy Brock were not a villain, considering how nice he looked. Mr. Todd had an unpleasant expression, so he left him alone for the most part.

They stopped at several little odd-and-ends shops, where Vlad picked up stamped bundles of papers, envelopes long since yellowed with time. The lord always tucked these inside various compartments inside the carriage and after they disappeared Danny stopped wondering about them immediately. It wasn't as if he could read anyway. It was a bit disappointing that a lord wouldn't be interested in more interesting things besides documents.

They did however, make one curious stop. At a positively colossal building of white marble and pillars, Vlad ordered a stop and headed inside, leaving William and Danny to gawk up at the structure, feeling small and worthless.

When he returned, it was with several men hauling three ancient-looking trunks behind him, taking the greatest of care maneuvering them down the stone steps. These chests were strapped carefully to the roof of the carriage, and Vlad simply ignored William's questions as to what they were. Danny would have longed to know himself, but the lord was sporting a steely glint in his eye, so he went back to playing with his animals. Probably more documents.

After a few hours of driving they stopped for supper, but though the food was not at all bad fare, the lord did not touch his own plate. But now Danny could not stomach much either.

"What's wrong?" asked Vlad impatiently as he picked at his supper. "Why won't you eat? You're a bony mess and you haven't eaten since noon. Surely you must be starving."

_Hello, kettle, I'm pot. You're black. _

For once, he decidedly was not. His face burned, his stomach hurt tremendously and he longed to be sick, but he forced the bile that kept rising in his throat down because he could never, ever throw up in front of his master or William. The humiliation would kill him.

"He looks a bit flushed, don't he?" William asked, gnawing on the bone of his fourth chicken leg. "You eat somethin' that din't 'gree with yoo?"

"I'm not in a carriage much. Maybe I'm just dizzy after the ride."

They got back in the carriage and rode for perhaps two hours; the many streetlamps and dwellings began to fade. Danny watched with feverish, glassy eyes as the horses rushed out on a dirt road leading away from London altogether.

A few hours later he started seeing long poles swaying gently in the wind, damp boughs thick and leafy under the moonlight. _Trees._ The air was so fresh and earthy it made him feel giddy.

At one point, Vlad looked over at him and asked him a question, though it sounded like senseless jabbering and Danny could not reply. The silver-haired man poked his head out the window and demanded William to stop. The lanky young man hopped down and opened the carriage door, inviting in a cold draft that fluttered Danny's raven black hair. It felt good.

"Close it, you imbecile, and get in here!"

William did so immediately. "Sorry, so sorry!" He yelped, bowing so many times Danny might have giggled. "A thousand pardons, m'lord, a thou—" He took a look at the young boy staring blearily ahead of him, clutching Peter and Tommy Brock for dear life. "Why, Master Danny, why in such low spirits? Ya shouldn't be gloomsome, no, sir."

"I'm not," he said with a rasp, through barely moving lips. Biting his lower lip, William pressed his hand against Danny's sweating white forehead, his brows disappearing into his bangs.

"Oh, dear. Got to be tha' nasty cold, innit?"

"Well, what do we do? Take him to an apothecary?" For the first time ever, there was a bit of a strain to Vlad's voice. "We're already some miles past London…."

Bemused, William looked at him, shaking his head. "Apothe….apoto….well sir, I 'sume yoo mean a doctah, sir. We're some ways away from a good doctah, sir. Might be best to keep goin'."

"He's burning up," Vlad snapped impatiently, touching Danny's cheek himself. "If we had him inside we could let him sweat the fever out, but I fear we're already too far away from the last tavern we saw…"

"We've got to keep 'im warm, then."

Vlad was silent for a moment.

"Hold him. I'll drive."

William snickered, thinking this a very fine joke. "Wot?"

"Hold him," the lord snapped again, hesitantly scooping up the boy and shoving him into William's arms. Staggered, the servant watched with wide eyes as Vlad headed out.

"But M'lord, why don't YOU just—

"Do as I say, you young fool!" The razor sharpness of his new master's voice frightened him; not because Will wasn't used to being shouting at, but because Vlad sounded _scared_. "We're running out of time!"

"Time for wot?" Will asked feebly, but the door slammed and he received no answer. A second later he heard the man clamor up to the top of the carriage, flick the reins, and they were off again.

_"Glory,"_ Will breathed, absolutely stupefied. He looked down anxiously at the young boy flopping against him, the bumps and dips of the unpaved road making the carriage rattle and squeak. William had once a young brother about Danny's age who'd died of consumption after a short career as a chimney sweep. Gulping, he wormed the plush badger into the young boy's arms, willing some of his strength to pass from his body to the frail one he held, or at last for Danny's eyes to re-focus. "Come on, cheer up. You're going to be fine, chap, just fine."

Danny's head lolled grotesquely on his shoulders and Will wished he could believe that.

Journeys are interesting in that while they seem to last very long at the time, there's a certain haziness about them that makes them difficult to recall even when you're still traveling. Minutes and hours are neither very long nor very short, rather like looking upon an uneventful year and deciding that it was neither. William was sure that they'd been traveling for a very long time indeed after it started raining, but when Vlad pulled the horses to another stop, he jerked in surprise, puzzled as if it'd been precious seconds.

Vlad let himself back inside, frowning. While the rain guard had protected him partially, he was still rather wet, and very pale—practically alabaster—besides. He was twitching oddly, and looked sallower then before, his eyes sunken in his face, wet strands of silver hair clinging to it. "Any better?"

"No, sir, sorry sir," William apologized, as if it were his fault. Danny still lay in his arms, breathing labored.

The child's eyes opened and they wandered towards the window. They widened just a bit, and he let out a soft "Oh" of surprise and appreciation. "What a pretty house."

William looked outside his window in surprise. In the vast green stretch of land, there was indeed a handsome manor, next to a thick forest of trees that loomed much taller, like a shadow. William lost track after counting sixteen polished windows, in which heavy, rich velvet curtains could be seen swaying, dark green and embroidered gold. The brick was not solid gold, of course, but it had the warm and rich colour, ridged with elaborate spirals on the rooftops.

Vlad looked up at the stately manor. His expression softened to an almost imperceptible degree.

"You think so?" Danny feebly nodded and his eyes fluttered shut, but William poked him until they reluctantly opened again. "No, young master, you mustn't fall asleep, you mustn't."

"Keep him talking," the lord said coolly, "I have some business here."

William blinked in surprise.

"Business?"

But Vlad had already shut the door again, leaving Will to mop Danny's sweating face.

~o*oOo*o~

A booming knock stirred the house steward from his sleep, and he most unwillingly shuffled to the door, grumbling a few choice curses in his dressing gown and nightcap.

Someone's house best be on fire to be disturbed so late. At least when he worked at a box and shipping yard no one had pestered him at the wee hours of the night, even if he had inhaled enough sawdust to reduce his lungs to pincushions.

He could hear rain pattering outside and he shuddered, opening the door and flinching at the sight of the drenched man staring down at him, a shabby old trunk at his side. "Good evening."

"And a good evening to you," The steward yawned, moving his candle and rubbing his eye with a fist. "Wot do you do here so early? If you want to see my lord and lady mistress, come back daylight o'clock."

"My business is urgent."

"What is it?"

The stranger looked at him strangely, almost as if he were trying to decide whether or not the steward was trying to be funny. "This house." He said shortly. "Call your master. I want him to sell it to me immediately."

"Wotcher! Go away," The old steward snorted, making to close the door. "We've no time for such nonsense."

But the stranger immediately stuck his foot inside the doorway, and before the steward could force him away he bent and unlatched the trunk lid in one swift motion.

The steward looked, went red, and then very white. His eyes looked ready to burst free from their sockets.

"I am getting impatient," Vlad suggested smoothly, in not so friendly a voice.

~o*oOo*o~

The lady of the house was soon roused and she was not happy for it. But her spirits took a definite turn when the count frantically pulled her towards the large chest the most esteemed gentleman Lord Vladimir had brought to their door. Looks alone might have confirmed the treasure's great worth, but the count shakily observed it close hand, daring to touch the blood red rubies, the heavy gold coins engraved with stars and elaborate rings fat with jewels every color of the rainbow. Goblets of pure gold and flashing silver, ropes of pearls worth more than the average Londoner man of business could make in a year.

The servants were woken and given the order to march; after the Count and Countess hastily sealed the deal with good Lord Vladimir, and they hastened out the back in their carriage, all other belongings abandoned. They had to decided to take temporary refuge with the baroness's sister, until a proper castle surrounded by new neighbors of decidedly better and fitting society could be located.

But despite this transaction being completed in under twenty minutes, Vlad was unsmiling. His breathing was shallow, as if Danny's fever had settled in his lungs, and he held a quivering hand over his chest. An electric spike of pain was pulsing in his head, throbbing at every moment, causing his vision to flash a scarlet warning.

"Damn, damn, damn," he cursed, trudging down the drive. "Running out of time, out of time…."

"William!" He called, and the door opened, his manservant looking out. "Come. Find a chamber and light a fire."

"This is yer home, m'lord?" He asked, sounding awed. "I thought yoo said we merely had business here!"

"I did, as it is my house," He said testily as William carried the boy out, closing the carriage door behind them with his back. "But it was being occupied by another party. That does not matter now—draw up a fire. Get something hot. For God's sakes, do _anything_."

William nodded and hurtled towards the house, and then stopping short. "The horses." The tired creatures were still waiting in the drive. "I'll go put them in the stables." He turned around again. "No, Master Danny first. No—maybe we'd bettah go to town and fetch a doctah right sharp?"

"I believe you are right. I have…business to take care of, anyway." He said, and the two headed inside. Will threw an appreciative glance at the mansion's finery, but hurried Danny into a sitting room where a large fireplace could be seen, next to a large reclining sofa. Will quickly lay Danny down, and, as he could not spot a blanket, pulled his black shirt over him before scurrying to the hearth. Thankfully there was plenty of coke next to it for a blaze.

"Business!" He exclaimed, blowing on a tiny spark. "It's right late. Can't it wait till morn, m'lord?"

"Unfortunately not."

"Then I'll go," William said stoutly, concern flashing in his eyes when Danny groaned, face darkly flushed. "Just tell me what to do, and I'll find a doctah. I will be as fast as lightning, I will. Yoo can count on Will, by bob."

"Is that so?" asked Vlad pleasantly, his cobalt eyes turning as red as the stones he'd offered to the owners of this great house. He advanced on his servant, whose back was still turned to him as he kindled a fire.

"Of course."

As if winter had breathed into him, Vlad became blue, bluer than death. His hand slowly inched towards the young man's neck, and talons were growing where once were nails, cragged, long, and cruel—

"Well, then…"

"Yes sir, to be sure," said William anxiously, turning to face his master and Vlad hastily whipped his arm behind his back, looking quite normal. "Why, I reckon we just met and the such, but I'd do onythin' if it meant helping you and the lad."

The lord looked at him long and hard. Will thought he saw a flash of red in the man's eyes, but a blink later and it was gone. A mere trick of the firelight.

"…..then you shall stay here." His eyes dropped to Danny's brow, glistening with perspiration, and away. "Look after him. I know nothing of medicine save bleeding, and I never trusted in it much anyway."

"Bleeding!" William gasped, shuddering. "Oh my lord, don't speak of leeches or knives. The doc on my ship was a clever man, said that was right awful!"

"Then I'll find a physician who doesn't speak such nonsense."

"But I should go!"

Vlad turned an icy eye on him. "Will you disobey me?"

He deflated. "No. Never."

"Good," Vlad said curtly, heading gingerly towards the door. Just this morning he had appeared powerful and confidant, but now he stooped, and his movements were that like an old man's. "I may be a few hours. Try to keep him from keeling over until then."

He looked down and paused; there was the stuffed rabbit on the floor. Very slowly and with a grunt, he picked it up, and then trudged back to the sofa where the suffering child lay, limbs drawn to his stomach. Danny's badger was tucked underneath one arm.

Peter was placed into the boy's arms. For a second Vlad's hand lingered on the toy, and then moved to Danny's hair, plastered to hot skin. He ruffled it briefly.

Looking embarrassed, he quickly took leave of the room. William stared after him in astonishment, but then Danny groaned again and he quickly hurried out in search of a bucket and water pump.

~o*oOo*o~

_For a long time yet, the room swam in and out of vision. It was difficult to tell what was real and what wasn't; the stinging of his throat and the sharp pains that made his stomach convulse felt real enough, but he couldn't tell where he might be. _

_Sometimes he was in the factory again, shivering pathetically in his bed and wishing that Dash would stop snoring, sometimes he was waiting for the Collins to take him away and this spiked him with terror; sometimes he was in a bejeweled carriage alongside his sister and dear Tuck and a beautiful woman with beautiful violet eyes so soft and intelligent it made his heart ached to look at them—he called her Mother. _

_And occasionally there was a man, a man cloaked in darkness with two red lanterns for eyes, hovering in black. His skin was blue, blue like the wretched specter he imagined he'd seen in the cemetery, the one bleeding asunder and silently begging for mercy. _

_But this ghost with the Death's-Head was different; it did not bleed emerald but red, or at least it looked like he bled, with his garments splattered in the stuff. The tall creature with hair hardened into what look like horns bore over his petrified body, expression silently questioning as it considered little Danny Fenton, terrible canines dripping. _

~o*oOo*o~

When he awoke, his head felt tremendously heavy and his mouth was dry as sandpaper. He groaned and shifted slightly, face pressed against the plushest of pillows he'd ever felt and began drifting off again.

"Come now, son. It won't do to be a lie-a-bed."

Danny stirred and opened his eyes again, startling in surprise. An unfamiliar man was bending over him, his head bald and shiny, his whiskers long and thick as to make up for it. Smiling, the man drew back, pulling out his spectacles from a breast pocket. "And how do you, young sir? You gave us quite a fright, you know."

Still bewildered, Danny stared back uncertainly, wondering where in the world he was. A thick comforter lay over his lap in a colossal sleigh bed. Behind him was a pillow much larger than he, propping him up. Tucked in next to him was dear Peter, and on the other side was his badger.

"Cat got your tongue, lad? Or does your throat still hurt?"

Amazed, Danny slowly shook his head. "N-no sir." His voice cracked. "Um, well, actually sir, could I…?"

Guessing, the man reached for a crystal glass that sat on a little table adjacent to the bed, filled with it water from the pitcher, and offered it to Danny. Bewildered, he accepted, very carefully taking the heavy tumbler between his two small hands and drinking gladly, feeling ice cold water rushing soothingly over his parched throat. It felt like heaven. Some of it splashed on his front.

Chuckling, the stranger took it away before he was done. Danny looked at the stethoscope and decided that it must be a doctor. Only very rarely was a physician called to come to the factory, although it happened sometimes that children lost fingers because of the machines and Mrs. Spectra would be forced to call in someone. Usually after bandaging the wound, the child was declared 'fit to return to work.' "Sir, could you tell me what happened?"

"You fell ill, that's what happened," He said cheerfully, taking Danny's thin wrist and quietly counting the beats. "All the excitement and the transition into such a new environment can be quite difficult on people as delicate as yourself. What do you weigh, two ounces? My name is Dr. Lancer, by the by."

The boy frowned. "And when you're used to being in a warm factory the livelong day, I suspect all the dampness and the cold hit you hard and fast. Lord Vladimir himself fetched me in the middle of the night to come and look after you, child. It's been two days since you've taken sickness and you were delirious most of it." He nodded towards the side of the bed, where Danny noticed William for the first time, head nodding, bent book sitting on his lap.

"This gent has scarcely left your side since then. I think he tried to read a story to you to keep your spirits up. I'm not sure the poor chap can read, so he just made things up, bless him. Lord Vladimir seems extraordinarily busy with his affairs but he made time even for you. You should be honored." The doctor drew Danny's nightgown down a little so that he could press the cold of his stethoscope against his sternum and he winced. Next, his hand pressed against Danny's forehead. "Your fever has gone down quite a bit, lovely sign…tell me, how do you feel?"

"Very hungry."

"I'm sure some succor can be arranged."

At the word "succor," Will began to stir, blinking blearily. When he saw Danny peering curiously at him, he nearly fell out his seat. "Gor! You're awake! Praise God!"

He leapt to his feet. "I'll fetch yoo soup! We don't yet have a cook, master's still looking for one, but I'll make yoo my famous, hearty fish stew. My shipmates swear by it, they do. For you too, doctah, of course."

"Um, that's quite unnecessary!" Dr. Lancer cried out hastily as William zipped out of the room. "I'd toss it out the window when he's not looking," he muttered, out of the corner of his mouth. "Believe you me, you'll _thank_ me later."

Someone cleared their throat, and the two looked immediately at the door, where Vlad was now standing. He looked as bored as ever, albeit maybe a little relieved. The doctor bowed respectfully as the lord approached. "Boy. Are you better?"

"Y-yes, sir. I am sir. Better, I mean, my lord."

"Drink this," The doctor ordered, ripping open a paper packet and pouring the grayish powder from inside into the glass goblet. He offered it again to Danny, who this time took it a little less gleefully. It tasted disgusting and he gagged, nearly dropping the goblet, but the physician only took the glass by the handle and pressed it against Danny's lips until he reluctantly drained its entire contents.

"William will see to it that you take it at least four or five times a day to clear your throat. Two or three days of bedrest and you will likely be quite well."

Danny opened his mouth but Vlad was not finished; he gestured carelessly at the well-furnished room.

"This room and the one adjacent to it are yours to do with as you will. If you have want of anything, you are to call for William. I am in the midst of hiring more servants, all of whom will be at your call."

"Y-yes, si—"

"You are to receive two shillings a week," Vlad continued, as if he had not heard him. He continued pacing. "That will be your allowance. If you want William to fetch anything for you from town, you are to ask him. You will take your meals in this room."

The tiniest of smirks curled his lips.

"For both our sakes, it will be better if I breakfast alone. If you go outside, you must take William with you. You are not allowed to go outside unattended. You are to be in this room at seven sharp, and keep your door locked at all times. Your bedtime will be at nine, and you shall rise whenever you like—I don't much care."

Danny stared at him.

"Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

The doctor muttered something respectful before bustling out. Vlad watched him go, eyes narrowed.

"If you wander around these halls during the day, I suppose that is fine, but you must always be within distance of a servant in case I summon you to my presence." He stopped pacing.

"But I would not count on that. Good day to you."

And with that, he swept out the door as well.

Danny gawked at where he'd left before falling back against his pillows, snuggling with his animals.

Well, he was blunt, but not ungenerous. Strange man! He realized he had forgot to ask why he had been brought here in the first place. He didn't have the courage to chase him down, so he resolved to ask next time. If indeed there would be a next time. Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

He crawled across his bed to peer outside the colossal window. The curtains were not drawn, perhaps because it was dark outside, though not yet dusk.

The grounds were still yellow with cold, the great assortment of trees not far away towering and silver, still in the throes of winter, rocking in the gales that swept their boughs. They looked a bit sinister, but not so much like furnaces that looked like greedy, barbed mouths full of fire. They would not reek of sweat or smoke or the metallic tang of blood.

Sighing, Danny rested his cheek against the cool wood sill, inhaled and gave silent thanks.

Everything was so much better here, even if the outside looked lonely and the master was moody. The only question was what to do with so much free time allotted to him. He'd never really had much of that before. Nor any money to speak of.

There was a knock at the door and a beaming William entered, bearing a large tray with a bowl full of gray steaming glop. It smelled terrible. "Here you are, little 'un! And git back unda them covers 'fore ya catch a chill."

Danny complied and Will eagerly set the tray on his lap. The boy stared at his food, starting slightly when a fish eye turned over and gazed back. "Chef William's finest, it is. Eat up and get hearty fast—you need some meat on your bones, young master!"

Not wanting to hurt William's feelings, Danny forced a smile, picked up his spoon and started to eat, hunger pains dwindling significantly. It tasted like what he imagined was death.

Check that—everything was perfect, except perhaps for the food.

* * *

><p><strong>Whew! Poor William just narrowly avoided a very nasty fate!<br>**

**A warning: I have no idea where this story is going myself. **

**Danny might come off as kind of a wimp right now, but maybe the years of suppression and cruelty have something to do with it. **

**Welp everyone, please tell me what you think. If the response is lukewarm the story will either be deleted or go up for adoption. T-that isn't meant to be review bribery! ;_; I really do want and appreciate your honest opinion. Thank you. **


	6. Exploring

**Hello everyone! Was delighted by the response. I'm still a little shaky as to where I'll go with the plot, but am willing to give it a go. Any suggestions you have are welcome.**

**Am in the midst of moving right now, so may be slow to respond, but love and appreciate you guys.  
><strong>

**In case you're wondering what last chapter title meant, it was Latin for 'To accept a favor is to sell one's freedom.' I'll let you decide as to whom that refers. **

**Unfortunately I lost much of this chapter when some of my files crashed. :p Nonetheless, here's an update. I had some fun with it and hope you do too!**

* * *

><p>~o*oOo*o~<p>

The following morning Danny stirred to the papery rustle of long grass in the wind and unfamiliar shadow patterns playing over his face. Birds twittered sleepily as he sat up, satins and silks piled on him overnight tumbling off.

This outlandish stillness had an effect like thunder; blearily wondering _why_ he felt so rested, lightning struck his spine and he scrambled out of bed with a yelp. Somehow he slept through morning roll call, and if he were late there was no breakfast, and Mistress Spectra would skin him. And then perhaps grind salt into him.

Just as Danny stumbled for the door, he fully wakened and fell to a halt, staring dumbly at his surroundings. Here was not the overcrowded bunkhouse peppered with holes bright-eyed vermin peered from, but _his_ (he almost dared believe) immaculate rooms, with richly-embroidered tapestries swaying on the walls. He touched them fervently.

Rather than dirt floors there were gold-fringed carpets so soft he scarcely would have objected to sleeping on them. Just days ago there was only a marble and a set of poor rags to his name, but here were his dear plush animals upon his velvety canopy bed. Still feverish, he could hardly trust their impossible tangibility, but there everything was!

Near-drunk with joy, Danny could not quite resist rolling up and down goose-feather comforters clutching his badger.

But surely he reported to _someone_, he reasoned, plopping on his back. He waited for someone cross to fetch and scold him, but the gloomy grey daylight advanced, and no one came. Puzzled, Danny padded again to the door just as William popped in with a platter, nearly bumping into him.

"Why Master Danny, you're still ill, yoo are!" The manservant exclaimed just as Danny stammered an apology. "Ta bed. Back ta bed with yoo, young sir!"

Head spinning, Danny obliged, William shooing like a hen at his heels. His bony legs trembled like a newborn colt's, but his sickness had subsided to a bad head cold—certainly he went to work in poorer condition. But he clamored into bed and smiled very hard when William happily lifted the plate-topper to reveal what looked and smelled akin to something scraped off London's filthiest carriage wheels. He washed it down with Dr. Lancer's hideous medicine.

After William left Danny fidgeted with excitement, every bone crying to scurry out and explore this strange new paradise. But his lingering chill left him exhausted and glad to sleep again.

Upon waking early afternoon he amused himself by playing with his animals before tiptoeing to another door—Vlad had said that these connected rooms were his.

This one was circular-shaped, with many stained-glass windows and a great chandelier that was a spider-web of glass stars trickling from ropes of pearl and crystal. Danny imagined that the room would be ablaze with color and sparkle if there were any sunshine to be had.

The walls were covered with dusky-hued frescoes depicting scenes Danny did not understand, many of which included fat naked people.

Circling the chamber were shelves filled with heavy volumes. Atop the shelves were faded globes and sober-eyed marble busts. And everywhere there were squashy couches and footstools. He drank them in with wordless awe, feeling unpardonably un-adult.

After careful investigation he also found a large water closet that he liked very much, but as he cared little for baths (his experience of them entailing cold pails of water dumped over him), he left it alone.

Returning to his bedroom, Danny again considered the doors William emerged from, wondering if he dared wander the halls. Vlad more or less granted permission. He rocked back and forth on his heels remembering that he was inside a _castle_, and he could not resist peeping out a bit, goggling at the glossy, pewter-colored hall and its emerald and gold pennants. Why were these hues everywhere?

But he remained in his apartments that day. Perhaps he did so because he rightly suspected that William would march him to bed again, but likely Danny stayed due to dread of encountering the master of the house.

The lord was generous—extraordinarily so even in his stony way—and Danny wished more than ever to thank him earnestly, though he had not a clue as to how. Vlad hardly seemed receptive to such things, considering he only ever waved aside Danny's words.

And for all his munificence, the dead-eyed man was still quite frightening. He was almost relieved when William brought him his dinner without a summons from the lord.

Despite his concern curiosity had the cat and the second day he crept out, jaw dropping. An expedition soon followed, though Danny likely did not cover half the rooms in such a house and finding his way back to his own room was difficult. Thankfully he met no one and the little child wandered spiraling staircases as he dragged his badger along, quite at leisure.

The house was beautiful but ill-lit and somber, and many of its rooms had the stale chill of neglect, despite their being orderly. Windy weather seemed omnipresent; outside shutters were always cluttering against stony walls.

Danny opened drawers and trunks, jumped on beds, hid in closets, and peered out windows in echoing halls (lifting his animals so they could see too). The pale grounds hardly looked inviting, but perhaps he would explore them if William were willing to join him. Vlad said he was never to set foot out-of-doors unaccompanied.

There was not another dwelling to be seen nearby, although he did spy a small speck in the distance that, upon squinting, appeared to be a windmill on the lonely plain.

It was an inherently strange transition—to work fifteen hours one day and to have nothing to do the next. But one of the most ironic things about freedom is that when one suddenly has all of it in the world, one simply does not know what to do with it.

~o*oOo*o~

Danny could only assume Vlad had been confronted with the state of William's cooking, because not three mornings after his arrival William came in his bedroom looking grumpy, pushing a cart of what looked and smelled like food.

"Did you make this?" Danny asked doubtfully, mouth watering as the manservant set the silver tray over his lap. There were baked beans and sautéed mushrooms and potatoes, juicy tomatoes on fragrant breads peppered with seeds and so many different kinds of meat he could not identify them all.

William snorted. "Nah. I'mma right good cook I am, but Master 'ired some else. Some lass from Scotland." He watched tentatively as Danny began wolfing down his breakfast. "I've been to Scotland. They sup unholy, they do. See dat? Dat's black pudding, it is."

"Was'shat?"

"Blood sausage."

Danny paused mid-chew before lowering his fork."He probably knows how busy you are," he reasoned. "You do everything for him, right?"

William grinned and stuffed his hands in his pockets like an abashed schoolboy. "Sure do," he boasted cheerfully, parting the drapes. "I know ya love my cookin', Master Danny, but s'pose the lass's fare'll have to do."

"Is she nice?"

"Reckon so. Same way a _banshee_'s a nice lass," William grumbled, ruefully rubbing his scalp. It was then Danny noticed a small lump there. "She's our washawoman too."

That afternoon Danny met her when he wandered upon the kitchen. He peeked from a scarred ajar door to find a stout, white-haired woman working over several sizzling iron pans. Evidently the old lady could feel him there, because she paused in her work, mopping her rosy face with her arm before abruptly rounding on Danny. He jumped.

The cook approached him, wiping her hands on a blotchy apron. "You must be the young master," she said, and Danny was struck by the treacle-sweetness in her tone. "Yer a sweet wee thing, you are," she cooed, pinching his cheek with rough fingers and making him wince. "Would you like a biscuit?"

"Yes!"

"Too bad!" She boomed, and Danny jumped again. Hair tangling in her face, she gestured angrily to plates stacked near a pump. "Good boys finish their meat at breakfast! That rotten scallop William brought back yer tray and I thought a wee mouse nibbled it! Yer a skeleton!"

"I…sorry?"

Huffing, the woman strode to a cooling tray on the counter, seized an apple oat-cake, and stomped over to Danny before unceremoniously shoving it into his mouth. "Now go and think about what you did. You'll be a sorry cad if yer supper plates aren't licked clean!"

Later Danny asked William if the woman were crazy, a sentiment William found endlessly amusing. He decided he liked her. The kitchen and servant quarters beneath the ground floor lacked the luxury of the main manor but the floury hominess was comforting, and he enjoyed visiting.

And her surname was…Hagen...meister? Pogglewash. Higgly-Piggly. Danny could not remember it for the life of him and it seemed rude to keep asking. So he avoided addressing her altogether and in his head simply referred to her as the "Lunch Lady" because the ruddy Scotswoman always trilled, "Lunch is served" even at morn or night.

Unaccustomed to eating alone, Danny liked supping alongside William and the Lunch Lady in the servant quarters, though the latter forced three helpings of meat on him.

The Lunch Lady boasted the secret to her heavenly cuisine was her habit of putting meat juice in everything. "It puts roses in yer cheeks," She claimed one evening as they ate. "Hearty fare and six teaspoons of meat juice besides a day will turn this little mouse into a strapping lad. Me mam swore by it," She said proudly, pointing to her wrinkled bicep. "And one day I will make the best bacon ice cream you ever had in yer life. Wait and see."

William snorted. "Meat juice fine, but wot's bettah for ya cons'tution's _castah oil_," he insisted, holding up a bottle of the foul-tasting stuff. Danny thought shoe polish would be an improvement. "Teaspoon sun-up, sundown for years and I've not a sick day in my life, I haven't."

The old crone snorted. "Hmph! Cross yourself and be thankful for yer dumb luck. With all yer talk of rough sailin' work, yer as skinny as a wet chicken. Must be the oil."

"Oi! Is dat a chall'nge?" William demanded, rising. The Lunch Lady smiled indulgently up at him.

"Oh, it would be, dearie. But me motha told me not to fight girls."

Eating an abernethy biscuit, Danny watched interestedly as the two battled—William with a wooden spoon and the Lunch Lady with a meat cleaver.

He felt somewhat lonely. Should he jump in and attempt to defend either of their honors, they would blankly stare at him as if Danny suggested setting the manor ablaze. He was not a servant.

Yet he hardly seemed a true resident of this estate, not when its master refused to tell him _why_ he should be housed here, or for how long. Questions gushed out Danny's ears, but a fortnight had passed since his arrival and there was still no glimpse of Vlad.

Slightly frightened, slightly hopeful, and very curious, Danny had lingered in the corridors near the enormous white doors William said lead to the master apartments. But Vlad never once emerged from them.

William explained that Vlad was so busy doing whatever it was lords did that he always took his meals in his apartments rather than the dining hall. Danny did not blame him; the room could comfortably house several hundred people. It would be bleak unless you had company.

Danny hummed, kicking his dangling feet and looking on as the servants attempted to kill each other. It should hardly matter at all; he had his freedom, which was all he dared hope for. And too much bliss besides.

But after climbing into bed that evening, Danny's feathery dreams drifted to lurid hallucinations of torn flesh and blood. So much blood that sometimes was brilliant green, or red, or both, always glistening and spattered all over him. In him. He threw it up, black like sewage, and a ravaged figure with empty eye sockets quietly considered him.

Danny woke in a cold sweat, found his stuffed friends had tumbled to the floor and he scrambled for them before any creatures in the room should get ideas.

Thereafter the dark dreams preyed on his nights with some regularity.

William advised him kindly to never mind, and the Lunch Lady told him bluntly that such carnage appearing in his dreams was his body telling him it needed more meat. Danny wondered what Vlad would say about such things. Very likely he would pooh-pooh the ghastly figure that haunted him as a foolish and childish invention, but Danny would have appreciated telling him about it nonetheless.

But Vlad remained conspicuously out of sight.

~o*oOo*o~

Despite William's concerns of the fickle spring weather he and Danny went journeying outside often. The first time they went out the Lunch Lady packed them a heavy basket and forced a Tam o'Shanter over Danny's head before begrudgingly giving her blessing.

It was terribly blustery and cold, but the kind of cold that feels perfect after running about considerably, which they were both inclined to do. The grounds were still wan and yellow, and the grey trees in the forest near the manor were stripped bare, but William told Danny not to mind: "Wait till summer when everythin's bloomsome and 'live 'gain. Like a fairyland. You'll see."

After eating they enjoyed a stroll before rumbling erupted from dark clouds rolling overhead. William cursed and scooped up Danny before bolting for the house. Despite his speed, the clouds split open and a virtual wall of rain hurtled on them both.

Sputtering and apologizing profusely, William wrenched the door open and staggered inside. Danny was scrubbing at his eyes when someone removed his soaked hat and cloak. He assumed it was William until he heard a low, accented rumble from beside them: "You will want to bundle up, young master, else you will catch cold."

Danny looked up as William set him down, shaking his head like a wet dog. Closing the colossal doors was a tall man, taller than the towering master of the house, even. Bulging with muscles, he had the powerful build of a monster in his crisply-laundered suit, which did not suit the wild-looking man in the least. His snowy white hair was long and shaggy.

Awed, he craned his head up to stare and the man stared back, eyes yellow and piercing. Danny backed away. The stranger laughed—a bark—and elegantly bowed as William sadly wrung his hat out. "Forgive me, Great One. It was not my intention to startle you."

Danny was too surprised to speak. The stranger sounded quite serious, but there was a teasing glint in his fierce smile—the sort that makes children instantly dislike and appreciate you. "I was hired by Lord Masters as a footman just yesterday."

"He's a nice chappie, this one," William said, probably meaning to clap the man on the shoulder but only reaching his elbow. Looking around, he added furtively: "Unlike _some_…."

Most unfortunately for him a clucking angrily Lunch Lady came strolling to the door that very moment. "Idiot man! I told you it would rain! Now the boy is soaked, and he will have consumption, and he will cough up blood and die! If you were twice as smart, yer head would still be stupid!"

"Oi! The masta's fine!" William shouted indignantly, waving his arms about like a boxer. "Wot 'bout yoo then, actin' so high-and-mighty when yoo got a face dat looks like it were set on fire and put out with a fork?"

The great man threw his head back and roared, the manor echoing with the ringing force of his shout. Everyone leapt about a foot in the air. Smiling benignly, the footman cleared his throat. "Ahem. If you please."

The Lunch Lady and William threw uneasy glances at each other, the former frozen in the act of yanking William's hair. In his newly-adopted refined tone, the footman said: "Young William, perhaps you would do well to draw up a hot bath for the great one." _Great One._ Danny liked it. "And perhaps Miss MacLachlan could prepare soup and tea."

They stared at him. He smiled toothily and suddenly William was leaping up the main staircase and the Lunch Lady was bustling towards the kitchen murmuring to herself: "Haggis stew, yes, yes, that's good, it is."

"Fish oil is better for a chill!" He called after her. With a sigh and shake of his head he gently pushed the dripping child towards the stairs. "Once you change, I will bring some wood for a fire in your hearth."

Danny's head whirled so badly he really did need to grip the banister, but he could not stop smiling. "Really," he stammered as he tailed after William. "I _am_ well."

"Better safe than sorry, young master. And rainy days are well-spent in bed with a mug of chocolate and a good story." A wink. "Thankfully I have plenty."

And that is how Danny met the General. Massive shoulders squared, the footman stood soldierly by the doors for several hours of the day though no one ever came calling. His hair was white but he did not _seem_ old. Certainly his still-muscular frame that earned sighs from both the Lunch Lady and William for different reasons suggested life in him yet.

Occasionally he waited on Vlad and hitched the buggy and horses whenever there were letters to be mailed (evidently Vlad had lots of those) or errands to run. Danny enjoyed accompanying him on these trips because he was a more-accomplished driver than William and less likely to send them careening into ditches. The trips broke up Danny's day somewhat and offered a slight change of scenery.

"Yoo might want o'Will to run and ask the master if it's well for you to go," William suggested nervously the first time Danny asked to come along. As the footman lifted Danny like a parcel and placed him upon the driver's seat, William fretted: "If he calls for yoo and yoo are not round, why, he might be right upset."

The fluttering in Danny's stomach increased, only now it was much less pleasant. "I...I can ask him," he offered, but William was already bustling back into the house. He considered his folded hands in his lap. It would be nice to see Vlad himself, nicer to think that his coming and going meant anything to the man. He pinched his arm until it hurt.

Of course Vlad was indifferent, and off the horses went into the sodden and unsunny flatland. Occasionally the footman passed Danny the reins. He said that his name was Ivan, and his surname was something long and difficult.

Although Ivan claimed to shave every morning he had a perpetual four-o'clock shadow. Regularly bumping his head against the ceilings of small parlors and the stables when he did not take care, having teeth that were so white and so pointed as to seem filed—these gave a bearish quality to him. This was accentuated by his habit of eating partially-raw fish at breakfast. The Lunch Lady could scold him all she liked; he ate it cheerfully and never took ill. This made him fascinating to Danny, who would have been frightened of him had he not liked him so much. Ivan had fascinating tales chronicling his time as an officer in the Anglo-Russian Wars. Unlike Mr. Collins, he would suffer Danny to ask countless questions.

"The Russian Empire is the coldest place on Earth in winter," he explained one journey to a farm for groceries. "All the hearths are blazing in the Russian courts, which are avalanches of furs and precious stones. The _tsar_ showers diamonds on his favorites like snow."

"A star snows diamonds in Russia? Which one?"

"No—the _tsar_ is the king. A mighty emperor. He gave a silver sword to me once."

_"Really?"_

Ivan shrugged, keeping his eyes resolutely fixed on the grassy road. "It was a small gesture for a trifle during a skirmish."

"What is that?"

"A trifle?"

"Yes, and the...the other thing you said. At the end."

"A trifle is something unimportant, and a skirmish is a small battle between battalions as opposed to a full-fledged army encounter."

"But the king gave you a silver sword?"

"Yes. It has a sapphire set in the pommel."

"He must have thought you were important, then."

Humor glazed Ivan's fierce amber eyes. "Well, he could be afford to be generous, if his poor serfs could not. I led a small squadron in a surprise attack and we were reasonably successful in our mission." Despite his calm humility, Danny detected a rumbling note of pride.

"My men…had a name for me. It was _Frostbite_, because I hardly minded fighting in the cold. In fact, I find nothing else can make you feel more lively!"

"Do you still have your sword?"

"Yes, although it is no longer so fine. I used it to slice fish."

"What!"

"Well, to be completely honest, I would rather have been given something _useful,_" he muttered, folding his arms and pouting_._ Such a look on such a man made Danny giggle, and he immediately clapped a hand over his mouth. Frostbite looked annoyed as he handed Danny the reins, but he did not slap him. "Though really, a true soldier needs no retribution but the right to live as he will when the battle ends. As it is _meant_ to. His men could do well to think so, too."

Frostbite seemed to think he said too much, because he fell silent for some time. Danny thought carefully and could think of nothing to say except: "Did you _really_ use a silver sword to slice fish?"

"It was hardly much good on my wall. I have no use for such things. And silver is a soft metal—it bends the first time you try chopping firewood with it. Come now!" he boomed, upon seeing Danny's expression. "That was _once_. And I kept the other gifts the emperor gave me in fine condition."

"What were those?"

"A belt with a tanzanite stone—a light blue one—and a gold armband."

Danny was beginning to disbelieve the man's credibility, but he was enjoying himself far too much to stop questioning."What did you get those for?"

Frostbite licked his lip. For the smallest of pauses there was only the rhythmic sound of horse hooves _clip-clop, clip-clop_ping. Then he said evenly: "The armband was for recovering an ancient map that the _tsar_ was desperately seeking for some time. The belt was a gift following the battle I lost my arm in."

"But they are both here," Danny protested, gesturing to the man's arms.

"Oho! Now you think me a liar?" Frostbite growled, impatiently ripping off his glove and tossing it behind them. When the man rolled up his sleeve, Danny gasped.

He had heard of prosthetic limbs before, but they were a luxury exclusively for the rich, who tended not to need such things as children picking out glass shards from boxes might. Where flesh once was there was now a limb that appeared to be carved from ice. Danny rubbed the quartz arm, ogling the bone visible within. "Pretty!"

"Hmph." Frostbite rolled down his sleeve again and Danny apologetically jerked his hand away.

They purchased food (well, Frostbite purchased, Danny pet sheep) and took to the winding road again. He may have nodded off on the return journey, because when he stirred Frostbite was carrying him towards the manor in one arm. That day on, Danny addressed the old soldier by his preferred name.

A week passed, and then another. Though he still luxuriated in having his very own bed in a house where he could eat, sleep, and play as much as he wished, Danny was grateful for the servants because never had he been in so large and bleak a house before. Though William assured him that Spring was coming, Winter was making a very good fight of it. Occasionally it snowed, though never enough to make a snowball.

Certainly Danny was not used to being so solitary. At first it was a lovely change, and then a lonely one as he was used to spending all his time with boys his age. Danny followed William about every where he could, though the man never allowed him to help scrub the floors, polish the banisters, or dust. And inevitably one of the bell-hooks in the servant quarters rang and the man rushed to Vlad's apartments and Danny would be left wandering the halls again.

He padded after Frostbite when he could, but Frostbite found several excuses throughout the day to duck outside. As far as Danny knew he was still forbidden to head out alone. The Lunch Lady would not escort him there, and was now turning Danny away from the kitchens because he was underfoot. Soon her once delicious-looking fare no longer looked very appetizing, and because it was at his disposal, he no longer wanted much of it.

His animals kept him company at least. While he kissed Peter Rabbit good-night and good-morning, he worried that Peter knew Danny was coming to like Tommy Brock the Badger more. Likely because Vlad picked out Tommy for him.

Lord Vladimir did not call him and Danny decided he did not care tuppence. But upon jackknifing awake from recurring nightmares of skeletal hands and white-eyed demons with mouths so wide their entire heads split open to accompany them, the child found himself weeping into his fine pillows at night.

Really, how funny! He had everything a child could want and he cried for Jasmine or Tucker or even for Dash's bullying as though he would never cease.

~o*oOo*o~

One morning, as the servants breakfasted together, Danny came into the kitchen and immediately asked, "Who is that man outside?"

Just as he had dragged himself from bed Danny passed a window and took notice of a strange figure sullenly digging muddy plots with his spade. He was tall, skin and hair dark. He wore a tattered uniform that looked slightly familiar.

The man paused in his work, and suddenly jerked his head up towards Danny's window with piercing green eyes. Breath hitching, Danny immediately ducked from the sill. He continued to peep at the man occasionally, but the stranger did not look at him again. His bare, broad arm bore a tattoo of black numbers.

William yawned, leaning back in his chair.

"'nother new bloke. Da lord just 'ired 'im to be da groundskeeper. Thinkin' we'll get a new maid soon, too." He winked at the Lunch Lady, who jabbed him in the arm as she passed. "Good, 'cause though o'Will would clean this house 'imself every day, dat's a big job even for me."

"What is his name? Of the...person you said."

"A groundskeeper is like a gardener," Frostbite explained patiently, turning a page in his paper. "And we do not actually know his…."

"He don't come in all dat much," William offered helpfully. "Think Ivan tried havin' a c'vil word with him, but don't think he speaks our language." He snorted quietly. "Dat, or he thinks he is too good for us."

"Why does he have numbers on his arm?" Danny asked curiously as the Lunch Lady set a bowl of sausages before him with a small saucer of oatmeal on the side. "Do people do that where he comes from?"

"Well, in my 'sperience, the folk who're marked as such are marked for a reason," William muttered, adopting a grim, knowing expression. "Usuallish 'cause they're prisoners."

"Prisoners? The lord is holding him prisoner?"

"None of dat, no, none of dat." William answered hastily. "I means he was a prisoner onceish."

"Why would he have gone to jail?"

"Probably thievery," William answered breezily, taking a swig of tea. "Dat's the most common reason people go to jail, though he's right lucky he weren't in England. People _hang_ for such things here. But in some lands I visited, they chop your hand clean off for stealin.'

"Or maybe he was a murderer!" He breathed, eyes lighting up. "Maybe he stoawayed on a ship somehow from someplace else to 'scape punishment and is goin' to murda us all in our beds."

The Lunch Lady and Frostbite threw each other surreptitious glances as Danny dropped his fork. "Oh, stop that, you_ cad_. Yer scarin' the poor boy."

"What do you call him?" Danny wanted to know.

"A lone wolf, plain and simple," William answered mysteriously as he helped himself to the sugar bowl on the table, unaware that the Lunch Lady had just swapped the sugar for salt. "W-u-l-f. Wolf."

"That is _not_ the way you spell it," Frostbite muttered.

"Oi! Wot would yoo know, mate?"

"That the man is of few words and yours are grossly misspelled," he supplied dryly, taking a draft of his coffee. "Let us talk of something else."

For much of that morning Danny played with his animals for some time at being sailors upon a colossal ship-bed sailing upon a lake of lava. Having no appetite for lunch he went to dinner hungry. As Danny was nearing the door, the sound of his own name gave him pause (as is your wont and mine) and he hid behind the kitchen door to listen. The servants were deep in conversation.

"Why don't the master ever call Danny in to sup with him?" The Lunch Lady asked above the sound of scrubbing bristles. "He's been here over a month and not once called for the boy to see him. Least I've not heard him do so."

"…I heard zit's how rich people do things," William said hesitantly, and Danny peered through the door crack. "Think Lady Mum or Lord Dad raises the kiddies themselves? No. I heard dey only spend time together for holidays or whatnot."

"Holidays?" Frostbite asked, as if the word were strange to him.

"Well, they send their children to school far away, usuallish. Or get them's a governess. Teach 'em how to be a good ladies and gentlemen, like prop. Why, just yestaday the master asked me to poke 'round and find the best 'cademies for learnin' youngsters."

Danny's stomach turned to ice.

"But he is young to be sent away. He is five?"

"Seven, believe it or not."

"I don't." Said the Lady stoutly. "A tiny thing, he is. A scrap."

"I wonder if the master will hire a nurse for the boy." Frostbite murmured.

"Nurses look after babbies. Bit old for that, seven." The Lunch Lady argued.

"But he _looks_ like a baby." The old soldier protested.

"Still, Master Danny's seven. But that's youngish for a tutor." William piped up.

"He will need to learn his letters if he is to inherit the lord's mantle one day," Frostbite pointed out. "Queen Elizabeth spoke Latin at three."

"But if the master meant for Danny to be his successor, he might spend some time with him," the Lunch Lady said falteringly. I don't know what to do with 'im, to be honest. Me mam always told me servants should not get too close with the master's children. It's not done. But he don't look a thing like the master, do he?" She noted nervously, clutching her blackened scrubbing brush. "I thought...maybe the boy was his child from some fling, but—"

"Don't you go 'ccusing the master of such things!" William cried at once.

Having heard sufficient to satisfy his interest and then some, Danny quietly retreated. As the kitchen erupted into bedlam, he ascended the splintery steps before emerging in the main manor. Running a hand against rows of marble pillars he passed, Danny shivered as his footsteps echoed.

Well. He sat on the steps, and impulsively clapped his hands. The sound thundered. Hugging his knees, he pressed his forehead against them and tried to swallow his tears.

Vlad went through all the trouble of finding and fetching him here, but here he would not remain. Of course he knew he would not. Heartsick, Danny drew his marble from his pocket and sadly turned it over.

What more did he want? This was more than he ever could have dreamed for, even in his most glorious fantasies. An angel had taken him under his protection, even if said angel was sending him far away.

What would _school _mean? Would it be as church was in his factory life, where the fat vicar Father Bertrand threatened the factory children with damnation and raging scarlet furnaces?

He wiped his eyes. He would enjoy what little time he had here, and if school were awful, if the masters were no better than Spectra or Walker, then this time he _would_ leave everything behind. Danny could still taste freedom.

And if he did not want to be alone to-day, why not visit the horses? Frostbite said they had yet to be christened, and perhaps he could teach himself to ride one. Slightly pleased with his own boldness, Danny headed to the main door and wrenched the handle hard. It took a few seconds of struggle before the door popped free and he headed out.

There was a rare hint of sunlight out and Danny breathed it in along with the scent of softening earth. He ran gaily across the grounds towards the stables, whistling as he thrust his arms out in the air and started running. The manor loomed behind him, but he would escape it yet. Danny spun, skipped and sang.

Comfortably daydreaming of sneaking carrots and sugar to the horses, it was only when a breeze made him shudder did Danny realize he had forgotten his cloak. Growing dizzy he fell to a stop, frowning slightly. A puzzling blankness in his head made him wonder if he forgot something else.

_"If you go outside, you must take William with you. You are not allowed to go out unattended."_

Oh, dear.

Danny froze, baby blue eyes dilating in panic. He slowly turned around to face the beautiful castle. No one had to know. He only had to rush back inside the house unnoticed. Would the servants tell on him? Very likely they would; they served one master over him, and perhaps Vlad would not be happy. Perhaps he had forgotten his orders; it had been some time since he delivered them.

Or perhaps he would simply throw him out. He wiped his palms on his pants. Just seconds ago Danny entertained dreams of triumphantly running away, but the idea of Vlad _exiling_ him, _looking_ at him with the same expression he faced Mr. Collins with, _hating_ him—made him near-sick with terror.

Back to the house he sprinted, faster than he had ever run in his lif—

_Splat_.

Danny lost his footing and tripped, falling face-first into a fresh patch of mud. Gasping, he rolled over, scrubbing at his eyes. Mud? It had not rained recently. He made to clamor to his feet, slipped, and then a rough hand seized his arm and dragged him to his feet. Blinking, Danny saw the same green eyes he had seen this morning boring down on him, glaring at him. Beneath them was a set of grit teeth and an expression befitting an angry bull, or wolf.

"**_Aaaaaaa_**!"

He twisted and desperately pulled from the hand that clutched his arm but it did not let go; the tanned man pulled him away from the spot where he fell, ignoring his struggles. Then the groundskeeper shoved him away, releasing him and Danny nearly tripped again in his haste to get away. He bolted like a rabbit, glancing behind in a panic to see how fast the man were gaining on him—and then slid to another stop.

The groundskeeper was now bent over something. In the mucky imprint where Danny fell was a small, now rather crumpled patch of freshly-planted white flowers.

Despite his better instinct Danny cautiously re-approached. "Oh." He had never seen much of blooms before. "Oh. I'm sorry."

He stooped beside the man, who pulled some string from his pocket and began winding it around certain stems.

"Are they ruined?" He asked anxiously. "Can I help them?"

The man snorted, although his expression might have been a little softer. He gave Danny another push and Danny kept his distance, eyes down. He retreated to the manor, albeit at a much slower pace than he had before, feet dragging.

With a muck-covered hand he turned the doorknob and shame-facedly re-entered. Thankfully Frostbite was not at the door.

Upon ascending the stairs however, William hurried to him with a large smile on his face that quickly melted into a look of complete shock.

""Good LORD, MASTER DANNY, WOT ARE YOO GOING ON ABOUT?!" The manservant cried. "You're a right mess! Oh, c'mon— " He too seized Danny's arm and pulled him along. William was in such a rush and Danny so light that his toes only kissed the floor. "You're a complete mess and we gots to get yoo ready _now!_ He wants to see you, Master Danny," He explained as they rushed into Danny's bathroom. "The lord orders your presence in his office sharpish."

The bottom dropped out of Danny's stomach like a trapdoor.

~o*oOo*o~

Danny clung to the man's sleeve, but William gave him a gentle, firm push towards the door. The servant lightly rapped the glossy wood, and a low "Enter" replied. Nearly sick with dread, Danny crept inside.

In a well-furnished room with a fire crackling in the hearth, Vlad was sitting at a great desk with one of the trunks retrieved from storage open beside it. As he hesitantly approached, Danny saw that it was filled with yellowing documents and envelopes sealed by cracked wax stamps.

Vlad was poring over several papers. His eyes briefly flicked up, and then down again. "Come closer, boy. Take a seat."

Danny hoisted himself into an armchair before Vlad, sinking in velvety plush. His hastily washed hair felt sticky, considering the Lunch Lady and William attacked it with combs and rose oil.

"You have been improved as of late?" The lord inquired carelessly, picking up a curious monocle and peering through it. "You were taken ill."

"…yes, m'lord. I have been feeling much better. William is very nice."

"They treat you kindly, then?" Vlad asked gruffly. "The servants?"

"Yes, m'lord."

"Are you in want of any playthings?"

Danny was startled. This was not what he expected at all. "No, m'lord, thank you m'lord. My ami…ami…my amimals are very good, m'lord."

"Hmph." Vlad snorted inaudibly, dabbing a pen nub in an inkblot and scribbling furiously.

A grandfather clock ticked in the corner. Slowly, Danny's fingers eased their death grip in his palms. Evidently this was a social visit, not a reprimanding. He sagged against his chair, remembered that likely was not appropriate in Lord Masters's presence, and hurriedly straightened.

A knock at the door; the Lunch Lady trembled underneath a large hoary tray, setting it upon a spindly table beside Danny before curtseying. "Tea, masta." Vlad did not nod and she took her leave."Take" was all he said.

Danny preferred milk but thought it best not to refuse. He took a cup, sipping cautiously. Making a face, he began scooping generous amounts of sugar and honey from their respective pots until he noticed Vlad looking at him. Face aflame, he quickly sat back and sipped.

Vlad swished around the contents of his teacup, looking unimpressed.

"I do not profess to know anything about children." He gingerly raised the porcelain to his lips before chinking it back upon its saucer. "I hardly understood them when I was one. I loathed it."

"How come?"

Vlad appeared to not have heard. "You have been content in your own company?"

"….yes, m'lord, very."

Vlad's eyes slivered and his gaze pinned Danny like a wriggling insect for a long and uncomfortable moment.

He returned to his letters. "The servants are at your disposal, but you cannot expect them to be your playmates. They have work to do. And society will invariably scorn you for such familiarities."

Danny recognized rebuke when he heard it. "I am so—"

"I suppose it is my duty to introduce you to aristocratic society at one point or another. But as I would rather stitch my head to the carpet first, it may be of some duration before this occurs."

Danny stared. The smallest of smirks curved Vlad's pale lips, but his eyes remained frostily sardonic.

"Eventually you must associate with other nobles and discern whether you wish to share in their society or not. And you will learn civility, one way or another. I will not have an ill-educated whelp in my house. Is that clear?" He looked up, stare dry and mad.

Nervously chewing a biscuit, Danny nodded immediately, accidentally spilling crumbs down his front. He scrubbed at his chin with a fist, muttering an apology. Vlad sighed heavily.

"You will learn." This was not a question. "I considered sending you to school, but…" Vlad scowled, seemed to consider something, and changed his mind. "I would rather monitor your progress firsthand. A tutor has been hired to educate you on conduct in high society. And if you have _any_ sense, you will never have to put that knowledge to actual use. Let that be your first lesson, boy."

Danny uncertainly nodded, although he did not understand one whit. Vlad's speaking left his thoughts in knots.

"And you will remember," Vlad added, rising from his seat and turning to face the enormous window behind his desk, folding his arms behind his back. "That under no circumstances, should you **_ever _**go out_ alone_. I will _know_, and I **_will not be happy."_**

He rounded on him and it was likely a trick of the light, but his eyes gleamed scarlet and _livid_; Danny flattened himself against his chair, nearly dropping his cup.

A second later it was gone; Vlad still looked angry, but his expression had softened. He even looked nearly contrite before his expression froze again.

"No harm done." He seemed to be speaking to himself, matted voice dipping back into its usual composure. "You were not stupid enough to be _entirely alone_. This one day.

There are many things in my life I have regretted, Mr. Fenton. Take care that your keep here is not one of them."

Vlad's low disapproval was so much worse than Mistress Spectra's cat-calling, or Walker's booming shouts; a lump in Danny's throat swelled and only by refraining from speech did he prevent its bursting and his tears. He nodded.

_Bluebeard. _

In a frightening tale the boys in Danny's workhouse were fond of repeating, Bluebeard brought a young wife to his castle and forbade her to open a certain door. One day she did, and found with no small amount of horror a chamber flooded with blood and the corpses of all of Bluebeard's dead wives. The room seemed very hot, but Danny hugged himself, wanting to dive underneath his bed and never emerge.

But what was outside that he had not seen before with an escort?

Vlad pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. "I did not even wish to bring this to your attention, but your wandering feet as of late have given me notice. There is another rule I must set for you. So far you have obeyed it; keep in mind that you continue to do so."

Danny looked at him blankly. Vlad sighed again.

"Never come to my office, or my personal quarters uninvited." The relatively smooth voice dipped into a hiss. It was lined with teeth. "If _ever_ I catch you in here without my leave, trifling through my things, _well. _I would say you would live to regret it, but in these circumstances, you would not."

Danny was speechless.

"Is that clear?"

He would not look at him, and so Danny could not nod.

"Yes sir," He croaked, and was unable to stop the tears flooding his voice this time. Vlad stared coolly at his paperwork, though a slight flicker of an eyelid betrayed some other emotion. But in a second it was gone.

"In your room," The lord said, in a now deadpan sort of tone, "There is a present for you."

Wiping his eyes, Danny glanced up in surprise. Vlad went on. "Keep in mind that he will not count as a guardian for you when you sojourn outdoors." There was a bit of the old impatient snap. "You must have a servant with you, and if one cannot be available, then indoors you stay, even if the house is on fire."

Poor Danny's head ached worse than ever. _But why?_ He supposed he was in no place to complain, but unless he went into the wood he would not likely be lost. There was not much else but the manor and the wood to see for miles around. And the forest was nothing but a sea of sticks. You would be hard-pressed to lose yourself in it.

And what in the world did Vlad mean by 'he?'

"Do I make myself clear?"

He was dying to ask, but he doubted he'd get any real answers. "Yes, m'lord."

Vlad did not reply, and Danny supposed he was being dismissed. Upon asking he received a curt affirmative, so he left his seat and headed for the door.

"Wait."

Danny turned and a jingling pouch flew towards him. Caught unawares, he had to fumble to catch it.

"Your allowance," Vlad explained, untying a ribbon from a particularly tattered scroll. "For the past few weeks. Once more, you are to speak with William should you wish him to fetch anything for you. Now off with you."

"My lord?"

The tentative address had to be forced out, but Vlad acknowledged it.

"If you please."

"Why did you choose me?"

At that, Vlad looked up, chin in hand, frowning though he did not look particularly angry. He seemed somewhat puzzled himself.

"I am very, very grateful you did….but…."

"Then let it rest at that." The lord returned to his work. "Please do not waste our time with needless niceties, Daniel." This was the first time Vlad addressed him directly; he was beginning to think a diminutive 'You' was his title. "If your conduct is suitable—" Why could not Vlad speak in easy, albeit butchered sentences like William? "—you will be so rewarded. That is all. Now get away."

Trying to stifle the flood of hurt stabbing at his throat, Danny got.

Upon closing the chamber door behind him, Danny rushed to the staircase and slid down the spiral banister. He ungracefully dropped to his feet and ran for his door.

He was not certain what to expect, but when he opened the door the answer came in a blur of paws colliding against his chest, knocking him to the floor. "Aaaa!"

The small intruder yipped, tail wagging furiously. Wide-eyed, Danny jerked back from the creature. It only advanced.

He remembered when a dog had dragged itself through the open shipping doors of his workhouse. Its ribs were visible, its eyes sunken and glassy. Its hair was matted, falling out in tufts. For whatever reason it frothed at the mouth. The children were intrigued and wanted to pet the mangy creature, but Walker had shot it from his overseer's platform. "Mad dog!" he cried, sounding _afraid_ as the dog fell and everyone scattered. "Mad dog!"

Later in the bunks, the boys swapped terrifying stories of rabid dogs sneaking into homes and biting little children and Danny cried.

But this creature was not frothing at the mouth, nor did it stink of decaying meat. It was small and fuzzy and perhaps knee-high to Danny. Its coat was sleek and dark yellow, its ears dark and floppy. He hesitantly knelt and the dog rushed into his lap, whining for attention. Danny heard a chuckle and looked up to see William leaning against the doorway.

"Puppy!" Danny cried incredulously, scratching the frantic creature's ears. "It's a puppy!"

William's already large smile broadened and the man chuckled merrily. "Well, I says to the master that every young'un wants a pup, they do."

"He's _mine?"_

"Yep." William staggered back a step as Danny dove to hug his leg. "Whoop! Fetched him from a farm near London. A good breed he is—he and his litter were bred for hunting."

Danny kissed the top of the wriggling puppy's head, its tail still frantically whipping back and forth. "What is his name?"

"Mm? Well, mate did call him…." The servant wet his lips and thought for a moment before snapping his fingers. "_Cujo_. Dat's his name. Strange one. Yoo could call 'im something else if yoo like."

"Cujo's perfect," he breathed, reverently flipping a silky ear.

"Why don't yoo take 'im out for a run?" William suggested, handing him the small red leash that trailed on the ground. "O'Frostbite's waitin' by the door. Show 'im the grounds. Go play."

Danny hardly needed convincing. "Cujo, c'mon!"

And the two went bolting down the hall.

~o*oOo*o~

Vlad was reading when William came to deliver his supper. Privately William thought his master scarcely ever touched it, but he brought it just the same with the paper.

"The little master's right happy now!" The servant reported cheerfully as Vlad unrolled the evening news. "He ran 'round all day. Ate all his supper like a good lad and nearly fell asleep in the tub. Well done, m'lord."

"It was your idea."

"You were worried about 'im," William reminded. "Being on his lonesome and such, 'specially so young."

"Be quiet." Suddenly Vlad went white, pressing his hand against his side. _"Guh!"_

William started. "Master? Are you…"

"Nothing." The man straightened. "A pulled muscle—it is nothing. You may go."

"...yes, m'lord. Call on o'Will if evah you need anything."

* * *

><p>A fork of lightning cracked across the sky and the explosion quickly followed.<p>

Startled, Danny sleepily rolled over, scrubbing at his eyes with a fist. Yipping, Cujo bounded off the bed.

"Cujo?" he whispered, as the tiny dog continued barking furiously at the door. "Cujo, shhh!" He rolled out of bed and tried to scoop up his puppy, which wriggled for freedom. "He'll get mad! You won't stay here if he's mad! Stoppit, Cujo, please."

Cujo did not stop. Not for a long while. Even when Danny tried to carry him back to bed, the obstinate dog simply jumped off again, whining. He circled the door

"Silly dog. There's nothing to be scared of," he whispered, hoping to convince himself.

Danny ducked underneath the covers and waited very hard for morning to come.

* * *

><p><strong>Yes, I realize the speaking patterns are woefully inconsistent in this story. *Hangs head* Vlad is relatively easy because he speaks in his-formal-holier-than-thou fashion. William and Danny are actually a little harder. Both of them are workhouse boys and I'd like that to show, but because I can never remember William's damn speech pattern it has a lot of holes. Gar. <strong>

**I realize that the Lunch Lady probably isn't really Scottish, but couldn't resist! ****Just wanted an excuse to make a tough Scottish lady and ran with it.**

**Yes, there were prosthetic limbs in Victorian times! I would LOVE to own one of those remarkable beauties. Certainly they're not crystal (ice?) like Frostbite's is, but that was a neat detail. So I took a few creative liberties. **

**Thank you for reading. Please review, folks! **


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